THROAM Vol 2 Wolves Vs Hearts
by Owari-Mirai
Summary: Story belongs entirely to Anna Green. -arcticgrey. tumblr . com / beggarsnotes . livejournal . com-
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Room for My Lovers**

The radio is playing, and I almost growl when I recognise the tune, glaring at the radio over the newspaper.

"Here it comes!" her voice calls out from the living room, sounding amused.

"Don't you think I'm well within my right here?" I ask demandingly. "They're mixing Beethoven with disco music! I mean, nothing in this song is original but was written by a guy who died centuries ago! And here these bastards are making money out of it! How can they sleep at night?" I glare at the radio that's perched on the windowsill of the kitchen. I know she's heard this rant more than once lately.

"I think it's funky," she says as she walks into the kitchen, quickly tying her blonde hair in a pony tail. She's running late, a bag flung over her shoulder. Her eyes locate the piece of toast I made for myself, and she snatches it quickly. I lift a disbelieving eyebrow at her. "Sorry, but I don't have the time!" she says as she takes big bites before taking my cup of coffee and drinking it down quickly, a bit too quickly as she makes a face and pulls back. "Ow, my tongue!"

"That was my last piece of toast. Thanks for that."

"I'm hungry!" she laughs, eyes sparkling as she tries to eat my breakfast in record time.

"I suppose I am the executive manager of the Starving Dancers of Manhattan Inc.," I sigh, going back to my paper, not caring it's old.

She finishes eating, takes another sip of my coffee, and then says, "Alright, I have to run. I'll bring you bread next time, I swear." She steps closer, and I look up from the paper as she leans down, our lips meeting halfway, my hand on her hip. It's more of a peck, habitual and warm. Her lips are gone in the next second as she stands up straight, stretching her lean limbs. One of her legwarmers is lower than the other. It gives her a slightly wonky appearance that she somehow manages to pull off, wearing black hot pants with a simple white halter top. I can see the green leotard through the fabric of the top. She picks up her orange rabbit fur jacket that was hanging on the back of one of the chairs around the breakfast table, sliding it on and zipping it up. There is no way her clothes are practical for New York in November, not to even mention that it's raining outside.

Doesn't seem to slow her down, however. "I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" she mutters as she half-runs out of the kitchen. "I'll see you at the restaurant then! Love you!"

"You too," I call out and turn to the next page, eyes landing on an article about the presidential election, speculating who wins. The election was last week, meaning that the paper is even older than I realised, so why am I even reading it? I don't even care what changes Carter would bring. Change. How do you measure that? What does it take? A new wardrobe? A new name? Different labels and cover-ups for the same person. And sometimes you try to change, and it's a conscious effort to, but they won't let you. They know who you were and cannot accept that you no longer bear resemblance. They tackle you. Drown you. And then you think the person you are is all you ever can be.

I push the paper away from me, hearing the song coming to an end. Thank god. I eye the fridge sceptically, wondering if anything edible's in it. Probably not.

"And let's listen to a bit of an older tune from a few years back," the radio presenter says. "Everyone, of course, remembers Ryan Ross and The Followers, and let me tell you a story of when I went to see them on their last tour back in –"

I've already made my way over and turned the radio off. Don't want to hear that. Don't need to hear that. The radio presenter is one of them.

I wander back out to the spacious living room, snatching the phone on the side table before flopping onto the couch, placing the device on my lap. "What was...?" I mumble, trying to remember the number as the receiver's pressed between my shoulder and ear. Rain keeps drumming against the big windows of the living room as I start rolling the numbers in.

I get the number right, pleased with myself as a groggy voice answers, "Yello, this is the love machine."

"Keep talking dirty to me, Gabe," I say, having helped myself to a cigarette that's now snugly between my lips as I keep the receiver between my head and shoulder, fiddling with the lighter.

"You couldn't afford me, Ross," he returns, but it's not his usual good-hearted comeback but an unfocused one. "Oh, man, I don't remember anything of last night. What did I take? Were you there? No, you- Shit, that was crazy."

"Devastated I missed it," I note and roll my shoulders.

Truthfully, there is nothing to be devastated about. There's a party going on every single night: jazz clubs, rock bars, coffee houses, all over Greenwich Village and SoHo. Starving artists, poets, writers, painters, musicians, some established, some fucking famous, some infamous, some destined to die in obscurity. I've got my regular bars and cafés already and I make infrequent appearances when I feel like it. On the nights I go by unnoticed, I feel victorious. Most of the time it can't be done, and I know I've been spotted when I render a busy room quiet, and then someone jumps up to buy me a fucking drink, man, I really just want to buy you a drink. From there, it can go either way. I decline, buy my own drinks, cause disapproval for my anti-socialism while secretly they're in awe, or I might actually feel like socialising, and then we talk about politics and the world and the nature of existence, drinking up and assessing the impact of the 60s folk revival. Some have the balls to treat me like an equal – a more talented and famous equal. Gabe was one of them. I instantly liked him.

"So listen," I say, taking a deep drag, "Keltie just stole my breakfast. How about we meet up for a bite to eat before practice? Say... the café across the original Eric's?"

"I can be there in an hour."

"Make it forty minutes," I say, hanging up on him to stop the protest that half-leaves his lips.

I finish the cigarette before heading to the bedroom to put clothes on, then stopping in the music room to choose a guitar to take with me. I stop by the entrance, flicking lights on in a room that is almost the size of my living room. Thirty odd guitars hang from the walls, a piano in the back corner by the window. That's why I bought this apartment: room for my lovers. I choose one of my older Gibsons, mostly out of nostalgia, and then pack her up. I stop by the mirror next to the front door to check my reflection, snatching a hat from the side table, placing it on the mop of unruly brown hair. Keltie doesn't like the hat because it was made by a girl I was with before her. The hat used to have plastic flowers attached to the side. I've since taken them off.

Light shining from the ceiling lamp catches the thin silver chain around my neck for a second, and I remove my gaze from my reflection as I button up my jacket.

Time to go. Change some more.

The rain's gotten worse, now lashing against the windows of the café, creating its own kind of music. I lean over my table and scribble lyrics in the New York Times' margins, stray thoughts and short notes, anything that could be developed further and put into a song.

"Excuse me," a male voice comes, and I brace myself as I look at the middle-aged man in a suit now standing by my table. Doesn't matter he's too old and clearly a part of the system – there are no more rules to who recognises me. Here it comes. The 'oh you are Ryan Ross's, the intrusive questions, the gasp when they then recall that, yes, they heard about that, twenty miles outside Seattle where bones were broken and metal turned into scrap metal. I look at the guy, knowing there's no escape. "I'm trying to find this place," he says, handing me a small business card to an accounting firm. The address has been made illegible by a coffee stain. "I know it's close by, but..."

"Sorry, man. I'm not really local." I hand the card back. "Ask the waitress."

He mumbles a thank you, and I try to calm down from my moment of slight panic. I've been in New York for some months now. I moved in the summer, but not because of the girl. Keltie thinks it's because of her, but had she lived in, say, Knoxville, Tennessee, she could have kept on wishing. The California air was just getting too dry for me, turning my throat into a desert. I traded it for the occasional bursts of summer wind from the Atlantic that blew in through the open windows of my SoHo apartment, ruffling my hair, smelling of pollution, cooling a drop of sweat on my upper lip as I clumsily handled my guitar. Being famous here is different from LA where people were likelier to come up to me. Here, New Yorkers have got a sense of pride to themselves. They might just walk past me and hide their 'holy fuck' expressions. They're important too. They are all someones; the world just might not know that yet. In LA, adoration was expressed with more immediacy.

I prefer New York for it. I like the maze-like nature of the scene, the smoky bars on 52nd Street and everyone knowing everyone through someone. The basics are the same: sex, drugs, music and dreams. Especially dreams. Plenty of those around.

I did the right thing when I packed up and got on the plane. Keltie didn't suggest living together. I was worried she might.

Besides, Jon had moved to New York from Chicago, and Eric called me up, saying that I'd been an elusive fucker with my extended stays in London, and only then did I meet Keltie, and she had the brightest smile that made me stop and stare. It also had to do with men I no longer see: Spencer, Joe, Brent... It had a lot to do with them.

The bell rings as the businessman walks out and a black-haired man enters in dark blue bellbottom jeans and a black leather jacket, instantly spotting me and heading over. "Here I am," Gabe announces, taking a seat by the round table and shaking his jacket a little, water dropping off it. He looks hungover, but he always does. "Coffee!" he says as he spots my cup and snatches it from me just like Keltie did earlier.

"Hey!" I say, trying to snatch it back, but he waves me off, slurping it in loudly. "Fucker," I mutter and let my eyes stare across the street and at the shop with _Eric's Record Shop_ written on the window. I see a man walk into the shop – a guy in his late twenties with brown hair almost to his shoulders. Not Eric. The jacket looks familiar, though. I wonder if Eric ever even goes to this branch of his record store chain anymore. Probably not. Are there even enough of the shops to call it a local chain?

"Gabe, get us coffees and something to eat," I request, and he nods and heads over to the counter as I light a cigarette. I look back down to the paper and my attempts at lyrics. They seem artificial and juvenile. I cross them out again and again until they're illegible.

"Un café para vos, y un café para mi," Gabe says when he comes back, adding, "El revuelto de huevo está en camino."

"You know that I don't speak Spanish," I note. "And you were brought up in New Jersey."

"But I was born in the humid, sexy and mysterious jungles of South America!" he insists, and I roll my eyes. Sure, he looks like he's got some Latino in him, his skin darker than mine, black hair, dark brown eyes, but he only speaks Spanish to get laid and I tell him as much. He grins. "Trust me, foreign languages get people going."

"Doubt it," I say and then smile. "Though I used to know this guy who never said thank you because he thought knowing it in a dozen different languages was cooler." I chuckle, just for the sake of conversation. "Anyway," I push the thought out of my head, "what did you get up to last night?"

He quickly leads my thoughts elsewhere as he begins a blow-by-blow account that gets hazier and hazier the further the night goes on. He ends up with a story of how he almost managed to get Maria Muldaur into bed with him. "I mean, I managed to cop a feel," he says wistfully. "Should've been there, man. You?"

"Just stayed at home. Keltie came by."

"Couple's night in. Fuck, I had no idea Ryan Ross could be so boring."

"Boring? You've seen me popping pills and snorting shit as much as the next guy."

"But you're a legend. I thought you'd do more."

I sip my coffee. "You're three years too late, man."

Gabe sighs dramatically and pretends to be upset. Our food arrives quickly, and he starts asking me about this guy Jon knows. I don't have much to tell him as I'm sceptical about our meeting. Not that I don't trust Jon, but he said that the guy he found works in a bookstore. Definitely not very rock 'n roll. The radio is playing that Beethoven homicide again.

We step outside to the cold weather, and when I try to hail a taxi, Gabe grabs my arm and pulls my hand down. "Isn't that Eric?" he asks, peering across the street at a black-haired man entering the record shop. It is Eric, and Gabe is instantly on the move. "Let's go talk to him. Fucker owes me twenty bucks."

"Poker?"

"Poker," he confirms, and I laugh as we wait for the right moment to cross the street.

The original Eric's Record Store is tiny and crammed, but I prefer it to the bigger ones spread across Manhattan. The windows could do with a wash, but I guess the rain helps with that. It's a narrow space stuffed with LPs and tapes, walls covered in music posters, and it's empty except for Gabe and I and the man behind the counter at the back.

"Hola, amigo," Gabe says, and I try not to roll my eyes as I grip the handle of my guitar case tighter. "Did I just see Eric walk in?"

"Yeah, he's in," the man nods, his eyes moving from Gabe to me. He's got dark brown hair unevenly cut, some slightly falling in front of his eyes that look green, then brown, a mix of the two or maybe grey, a bit of stubble on his chin. He's tall and lean with broad shoulders, roughly my age or a bit older, and I think he might be the guy I saw walk into the shop earlier. He's got a kind and friendly face. Handsome.

He doesn't seem to need a minute to take me in, however. "Fuck," he swears. "Fuck. _You're_ Ryan Ross."

"And I'm Gabe Saporta. Hi." Gabe waves a little, but the guy's not interested.

Instead he breaks into a big, excited grin. "Holy shit! Ryan Ross of The Followers! You – My god!" He launches into a ramble of my music, when he saw us play, what he thought of it, every little thing, and then he's calling out, "Eric! Come out here!"

The bead curtain rattles as Eric steps out of the back, a bunch of papers in his hands. He spots us and smiles. "Ry! Gabe! What's up, guys?"

I lift a hand habitually as it's not been that long since I last saw Eric. Gabe instantly starts whining about his twenty bucks, and Eric looks unhappy about it – a stingy Jew, it's so sad he actually lives up to the stereotype.

The guy keeps beaming at me. "God, Eric's said a dozen times that he knows you, but we all thought he was kidding and trying to impress us!"

"Yeah, Eric and I go way back. We both used to live in LA."

"I used to live in California too!" he says, like that should give us common ground, make us friends, help us relate. "God, I'm sorry! The name's Shane."

He offers his hand. Eric is now grudgingly pulling a twenty out of his pocket, Gabe holding his palm open and ready, and I quickly shake hands with Eric's overly enthusiastic employee before pulling my hand back and wiping it on my pants.

"Oh, could you sign something for me?" Shane now asks, rummaging through the papers and LP stacks that are on the counter he's behind. "Hang on." He rushes past the counter and me, and I see him heading to the F section. Great.

"Ryan, I'm throwing a party tonight," Eric now tells me. He's eyeing Gabe scornfully, but Gabe's grinning. "You guys should come."

"What's the party for?"

"Opening the fifth Eric's Record Shop. There'll be musicians and actors and artists..."

"In other words, unknown fuckers and no stars, and this is where Ryan steps in, am I right?" Gabe says. Eric refuses to confirm or deny Gabe's accusation.

Shane's back with the first Followers album, _The Followers_, and my eyes flicker over his shoulder to see _Boneless_ there too. Huh. Didn't go for the best selling album. Okay, I can respect that.

He seems to read my thoughts as he says, "Oh, I've got _Boneless_ signed at home. Got two copies, actually. _Her House_ too, but not this one."

"You're paying for that," Eric says sharply, and I snatch a marker that's lying on the counter, signing the cover quickly.

On some days, I think I'm doing well, and then I have days like these, when it feels like I'll never be able to shake it off me. But just they wait. I'll show them. I can rise from the ashes of a band that ceased to exist over two years ago. I've moved on, but the world's slow on the uptake. My new band's it, ten times better than The Followers ever was. It's going to be huge.

"So you're coming, right?" Eric asks demandingly, and I agree since I have no plans after dinner. Eric tries to get a rematch going with Gabe, and Shane is trying to converse further, but he's just some Followers fan. I've had enough of them.

Eric disappears into the backroom as we leave, and Shane says, "Maybe I'll see you tonight then! Buy you a beer! Really amazing talking to you, Ryan! Bye!"

I lift an awkward hand to signal our parting of ways. It was beautiful while it lasted.

When we step back out into the rain, Gabe says, "Well, he wanted to get on his knees and suck you off."

"Shame that you're in the queue before him."

"Fuck off."

We grin at each other and get a taxi.

Our practice space is a spacious, windowless room below ground in an inconspicuous looking building on 3rd Street. We're late since we got stuck in traffic, but we were late even at the café – sometimes Gabe and I can talk bullshit for hours effortlessly – and Jon is already there with a short and chubby bespectacled man, who is wearing a knitted vest over a dress shirt and a black cap on his head. "Oh, you're here!" Jon greets us, motioning us over. "Guys, this is Patrick! Patrick, this is Gabe, the bassist, and well, this is Ryan Ross."

Patrick and Gabe shake hands before Patrick turns to me. He's got a good-natured face, and the first thing that comes to my mind from his clothes and his appearance is harmless. He's utterly harmless, and my scepticism grows. If you want to be in the music business, you have to be willing to break some bones.

"Ryan Ross," he says, grabbing my hand. "Really pleased to meet you. Wow."

"Nice to meet you, Patrick," I say, letting my tone convey that I'm not very impressed. I give Jon a long look before pulling my hand back. Jon narrows his eyes at me like I better keep my snobbiness to myself right now. Jon never lets me get away with bullshit, and that's why I need him around. Gabe gets me into trouble, and Jon pulls me out of it. It works as far as I'm concerned.

I throw my jacket on the one couch we've got in the windowless room, sitting down on it and opening my guitar case. This is essentially a job interview, so that's how I'll approach the situation.

I glance at the newcomer. "So. You're a drummer."

Patrick nods. "Yeah."

"But you work in a bookstore."

"Part-time. I've been, um, trying to hit some mic nights and stuff. Get into the scene. Met Jon at the store last week. Both Chicago boys."

Chicago. Right. What wouldn't Jon do for one of his home boys?

"Alright. Show me what you've got," I say, leaning into the couch, prepared to be underwhelmed. Patrick rolls up his sleeves as he goes to the drum set in the corner, sitting on the stool and swirling drumsticks between his fingers.

He looks up nervously. "So what happened to your last drummer again?"

"Ryan fired him," Gabe supplies. "Wasn't good enough."

Patrick pales. "Oh."

Finding a superb drummer is surprisingly difficult. I was spoiled at an early age, being in a band with Spencer, though his skills have probably waned since, wasting his life with whatever shit he's up to now. I don't know. Haven't talked to him in well over a year. Better that way.

Patrick starts playing. Okay, he's pretty good. Not bad. Alright. I'm listening. He plays a five minute set, just going through different techniques to show us what he's got, and he seems to get really into it because after he's done, he says, "I can also play other instruments." Without any of us asking, he picks up one of Jon's basses and fiddles around with it for a minute, then snatches a guitar and says, "I once worked out an acoustic version of _Sore Skill_," and starts playing a Followers song, and Jon tenses up a little, but Patrick does it so well that I don't even mind. Then he says, "Oh, is that a trumpet?" We've got a shit load of instruments lying around.

Patrick goes through the piano, has a bit of fun with the violin, and he's trying to find a stool so that he can have a go at the cello, when I say, "Okay. Welcome to the band, Patrick."

He stops, looking at me with big eyes. "Fuck. Really?"

Jon grins broadly, clearly pleased. I say, "Yeah. Really."

"Holy crap."

I suppose if this was 1971, it'd be a bit like Paul McCartney just having recruited a part-time book salesman to play in Wings with him. No wonder Patrick looks like he's dreaming. I could make a few calls, get someone to play drums for us easily, but I'm sick of big rock stars, guys who think they're the shit. Patrick's fucking talented. It hasn't gone to his head one bit. He has no idea what he's getting into. He's hired.

We drink a few beers, play a few songs, try and get a feel for each other, and before one of us knows it, it's six hours later. I leave my guitar there as we head out together, and we invite Patrick for dinner with us. He's a part of the band now.

Cassie and Keltie are already waiting for us at the busy restaurant, seated around a large table reserved for our party, and I kiss Keltie on the mouth, Cassie on the cheek, and she goes stiff but smiles my way anyway. I don't think that girl is ever going to like me.

When I sit down, Keltie leans over and asks, "_He's_ your new drummer?"

I take one look at Patrick sitting between Cassie and Gabe, looking like an overzealous door-to-door Bible salesman, and say, "Yeah."

Keltie shrugs. The waiter comes over, and I order three bottles of wine to kick off the evening.

I spend most of our dinner drinking up, smoking cigarettes, eating the steak I ordered and talking to Jon on my other side, now properly scheming our album. We're the driving force behind this show – Gabe and Patrick play what they're told to play. Patrick seems like the kind of guy who might have some amazing ideas of his own, and I look forward to bouncing ideas off of him, but still: I'm the songwriter, Jon is the second in command. This time I want to make damn sure everyone in the band knows where they stand.

Jon says, "I see us maybe getting into the studio in January."

"Really? Not any sooner?" I ask, sighing. He's probably right, though. Jon's always sensible about these things. Keltie's got a hand on my thigh under the table, deep in conversation with Cassie about clothes or fashion or some other feminine thing that I don't get.

The two disappear into the bathroom, women always going together for some reason, and when I announce I'm out of cigarettes, Patrick offers to get me some from the bar next door. "The least I can do, right?" he asks, and he's still nervous, not used to me yet. In a few weeks' time, he'll stop treating me like a god. Better enjoy it while I can.

The three of us watch Patrick snake his way through crowded tables – crowded because it's a small restaurant full of faux bohemians, not really because it's the most popular in New York – and Jon says, "He's fitting in nicely, right?"

Gabe hums thoughtfully. "He looks like a virgin. Do you think he's a virgin?"

"It's 1976, Gabriel. No one's a virgin," I say with a roll of my eyes. "You guys want more wine?" I start signalling the waiter, and Jon gets up and announces he's going for a piss. The table next to ours has been empty, but now two men sit down at it. A father and son, by the looks of it. The son looks like he's in his early twenties, skin like porcelain, big, innocent eyes, blond hair. Gabe's staring.

The waiter's made his way over, and I say, "Can we get... two more bottles of this?" I point at one of the empty wine bottles at random. He instantly nods and hurries off.

From sucking tequila shots from the belly buttons of groupies to sipping French red wine in mediocre restaurants with what's essentially a double date with Keltie and I, Jon and Cassie, plus Gabe and Patrick as a slightly awkward extension. It's different. It's a statement. We're all grownups now. We've got life figured out. We know what we want. We've got friends and holiday plans.

Right now, Gabe's got it figured out too, what he wants. He's still staring at the kid. "Gabe. _Gabe_."

My friend flinches and looks back to me. "Shit," he laughs. "Too much wine." He sneaks a glance at the kid. "I'd fuck that." He leans over the table conspiratorially. "Wouldn't you fuck that?"

I take another look at the kid. I like my women blonde – men, not so much. It's weird how that's worked out. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. The best combination on a man.

I shake my head, and Gabe says, "More for me then."

We both know he's kidding. Public restaurant, a kid who's damn good-looking but most likely straight, with our bandmates and girlfriends present? No. Neither of us is going to show any indication that a man has caught our attention or, well, Gabe's attention.

I had no idea he swung both ways when we met. It's the kind of thing you shut up about for your own good. It was only when we were at a party and both tried to get the same guy that we realised we had more in common than our Gibson Thunderbirds. Gabe was drunk but kept grinning and mumbling, "Now I've got a partner in crime! You dirty little fucker!"

Jon doesn't know. Keltie doesn't know. No one knows.

Fuck, that's the last thing I need.

It's not like it's a big deal, though. It's a secret, but one that I'm at peace with. So I fuck men. There really are worse things happening in the world than that. Besides, I'm taken. I'm not taking off with Gabe during the weekends to disappear into sleazy clubs where no one knows us and where everyone's after one thing. It's easy to find – all the people present are men. No, I've stopped that. Never liked it. Never frequented either, just... maybe sometimes. When I felt lonely or was so drunk that I didn't care.

I try my best to deserve what I've got. Spoil Keltie because I can, though she objects and says she wants to be independent or some other crazy shit that Jac used to say. What's happened to the women who only wanted to meet a nice, rich man? Still, Gabe doesn't let my attempts at monogamy stop him. He tells me stories of the men and women he fucks. Especially the men.

Keltie and Cassie return. I keep my arm resting on the back of Keltie's chair, my forefinger absently drawing circles on her back as we drink the rest of the wine. Gabe's telling stories and making the girls laugh. He's got a way with women. And men. Hell, everyone.

Keltie declines my invitation to Eric's party, which I suppose I am now forced to go to.

"Aw, you're going already?" Cassie asks, and Keltie nods, putting her jacket on.

"The Thanksgiving Day Parade is just a week away! We're practising all day every day!" she says, sounding stressed.

Patrick looks curious, so I say, "She's a Rockette."

"Oh! You dance! And stuff!" Patrick says. He's had too much wine. I light a cigarette. Keltie looks slightly offended – she's not a dancer, she's an athlete. She tells me as much all the time.

I escort Keltie outside, get her a taxi and kiss her goodbye in the rain. Her brown eyes sparkle when she smiles at me.

All hope is not lost when you've got smiles like that.

But there are smiles, and then there are _smiles_, like the one this blonde girl is giving me: danger, excitement, probably a dozen filthy tricks she can do in bed. I'm tipsy enough to feel good, a tunnel of nothing but feeling good, endlessly, effortlessly. I can like myself. I'm under the radar. I doubt Keltie would ever find out.

It's turning out that Eric's party is not half bad. Cassie didn't come with us, neither did Patrick since he's got a morning shift, but Jon, Gabe and I came. If we thought we'd liven up the party, we found out we didn't have to. Eric's hired a small club – cheap git – with bad PA, and the sounds of people talking are louder than the music. It looks like it normally operates as one of those damn discos that persistently keep popping up like mushrooms after rain. That's not music. That's not rock. It's noise. It's a crime. The kids these days are all heading down the wrong path.

Gabe's on the dance floor already, clearly not giving a damn that this club should be spat on, and Jon is talking to Eric and some girls that are quite clearly flirting. Cassie doesn't have to worry; Jon would never stray.

But I know neither will I. This girl isn't worth the risk. That's what I always have to ask myself – is it worth it? So far, no. It's like living on a podium, and all these girls are jumping around it, hands lifted to the sky, and I look down occasionally, smirking at their efforts. I pick and choose. I'm in control. They squirm. Sometimes they don't give a shit that Keltie's with me, and they try to hit on me anyway, with looks like I could do better than her. She hates it when that happens. Makes her feel bad. She cried about it once. I can't help what other people do. It's beyond my control.

Instead of casting suggestive looks around, I spend my evening talking bullshit. Always a valid option as people want to hear me talk about me. It's good we've got something in common. Crowds appear around me without me having to try.

I retell the story of that one time me, Bob Dylan and Iggy Pop got horribly drunk in Baltimore and started a band, but broke up the following day due to artistic differences. I launch into my favourite part of Bob getting pissed off and storming out of the room and –

There's a man. On the other side of the room. Talking to a girl. Smiling.

There are all kinds of smiles in this world, but some you memorise. Some you learn by heart.

Words die in my throat. The people around me disappear. The music fades out like someone's twisting the volume button down.

He's not gone in the next second. He's still there. He's smiling in a way that reaches his eyes – brown, a gorgeous brown, not that I can see it from here, but I remember, I still – nodding energetically, and then he laughs, bright and happy, a drink in his hand.

I can't breathe. I can't think.

Someone blocks the view, taking him away from me, and the world kicks back into motion.

"So what did Iggy- Ryan, where are you –"

My steps are rushed, panicked. My hands are sweating, ears pounding with a rush of blood, and I don't believe that I really saw what I saw. This party. This day. All these people. Me. Him.

And then I'm there, and he hasn't changed shape, hasn't transformed into someone who merely looks like him. It's Brendon. It's my –

He looks older. His hair is longer. He's more stunning than any of my bleated and worn out memories of him, the ones I've twisted and turned in my head night after night.

I stare at him. "Hey." My voice comes out breathless. If he doesn't react, then this is just a mirage, some fucked up combination of false hope and Umbrian red wine, make '74.

But he does react. He turns his head, sees me and stops. Shock flashes on his features, and he actually takes a step back as if he's been hit by surprise, the smile vanishing, mouth remaining parted, eyes widening.

The lights of the club change for a second, shadowing his face. I remember that, the way we stood in the dark hallway in the apartment of a Castro freak. He was in the shadows. I couldn't see his face. He told me to leave. My lip was bruised. Not by him. I left and ached all over.

He looks completely thrown off as he takes me in. He can't believe his eyes either.

"Oh my god!" the girl says, and I look at her, a busty brunette. "You're Ryan Ross!"

I don't let her distract me but focus on Brendon. He seems panicked, like he now realises he has to say something. He says, "Hey."

His voice. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. His voice. His eyes.

The girl looks between us and asks Brendon, "You know him?"

Brendon drops his gaze from my face. It feels like rejection. It's hard to swallow, a painful knot inside my guts. An urgency. My heart's beating fast, like it's going to pass out from the shock, the excitement, the disbelief.

Brendon looks at the girl. "I was a roadie for The Followers one summer."

She laughs. "You're shitting me! You toured with _The Followers_?"

Her tone is sceptical, like now she's being tricked, but I say, "He did."

Brendon flinches. He looks at me again. I'm buzzing. Everything. Blood. Adrenalin. Memories. Him.

It's not rejection because he's now looking at me, engrossed. He's taking in my face. I've got an insanely strong urge to run my fingers through his hair. The brown strands are longer now. It looks so good on him.

The girl looks between us, and no one says anything. Brendon holds my gaze, but he's nervous. "Well..." the girl says. She sounds uncomfortable. She motions behind herself randomly. "I think I'll just go and..."

And then she's gone.

I step closer to Brendon, occupying the void she left. Someone walks by me, pushing me forwards, and we both step closer to each other in the crowded room. I could reach out to touch him – sparks, warmth, magic –

"What are you doing here?" I ask. Pick one out of millions.

"The party?" he asks. He looks pale and put off. He didn't know I'd be here. "Was invited."

"New York," I correct. This party. My life.

"I live here."

He lives here. "Me too."

"When did you move?"

"Three months ago."

"Oh."

"You?"

"A year now."

"Oh."

We both stop to breathe.

A year. He's lived here for an entire year. God, where have I been for most of that? Wasting my time. I always thought that he was still in San Francisco. He wasn't. Hasn't been. I knew he could be anywhere, but I wanted to pretend that I knew. Keep him tangible. I could stroll down Castro Street, ask someone for Brendon, and find him. I always knew it was bullshit, borderline pathetic. I knew I wouldn't be able to find him anymore. He was gone for good.

But now we've been living in the same city for months. _Months._ Fuck, I could have passed him on the street, walked into the same bar... I could have lived here for twenty years and still never have known. But that didn't happen. I met him tonight. It's destiny. Fate. That's what it is. That our paths are crossing, colliding. That we were meant to meet again.

I ask, "Where are you staying?"

"Brooklyn," he says, but not dismissively like I would because, fucking hell, all the way there? "You?"

"SoHo." He looks slightly surprised. "The Village is so 1972. SoHo's on the rise, trust me," I smirk. Try to be charming. Right now, trying to be charming would be a damn good plan. My SoHo apartment was damn cheap and a good investment. I had to have it completely renovated, but it was worth it. I told myself that if I made an effort and built myself a home, I'd really have one. It's been another failed attempt.

The initial shock seems to have faded. He's talking to me. He might be angry. I don't know. He might not give a shit. I've only pictured this a thousand million times. Now I let myself smile and chuckle, indicating 'oh wow, it's a small world'. He's not relaxed. He's on edge. What did I really expect?

"God, it's been a while, huh? Man." I shake my head in disbelief. "So how you been?"

"Good. Really good." He's nodding like he's busy agreeing with himself. "Just great."

"That's good," I force myself to say. Fantastic.

But he looks great. Smart clothes, good hair cut, in an exclusive NY party? He's clearly doing alright.

He always was a survivor. Even survived me.

His expression changes right then to something that has a hint of sadness in it. I brace myself.

"I read about the crash in the papers." Oh. That. I look down to his shoes. "Later Will told me about it, but... I'm sorry about the band. You guys made great music."

It sounds rehearsed. In his one thousand million versions, he's always told himself to say he's sorry. Why? It's not his fault. He was there; he saw the state of the band. Why be sorry? The car crash just gave us the much needed excuse to announce our tragic death. Spencer chose picket fence America in Cincinnati, telling me to stay out of his life, and when Joe got out of the wheelchair, he came to my apartment, smashed my Fender and called me a cunt. He's going solo now. Brent... Fuck, I have no idea what the hell Brent even does these days.

"Yeah, how is William?" I ask, looking back into his eyes that are alive, unsure but alive. Fuck, he's breathtaking.

"He's good. Lives in San Francisco with his boyfriend." I feel an involuntary smile tug at my lips, and he frowns. "What?"

I break into a grin. "I _knew_ he was gay. I fucking knew it."

Somewhere out there in the world, Brent Wilson now owes me fifty bucks. Brendon shrugs, and the conversation seems to die, like he doesn't want to talk about his friend's sexuality or the denial there of, like he's said what he always meant to say – give his condolences – and he never really pictured what would happen after that. But I have.

He's talking to me.

I scratch the side of my head and look around casually. My heart beats fast. Fuck. This is it. That moment. Brendon's here. With me. This is it.

"Hey, you wanna get out of here? Catch up over a few beers."

Speak fast. Convince him. Confuse him. Don't let him think. Get him out of here. Get him to come with me. Don't let him replay it in his head, all that happened, what he said, what I said, what he did, what I didn't do, because if I let him think about it, I've lost.

Speak faster. Convince him.

It flashes before my eyes: slamming him against the wall, the starving kisses, the way we desperately pull each other's clothes off, the way he groans, "_Ryan._" And I'll explore every inch of his skin, kiss and lick and suck, before even thinking about pushing inside him. I'll leave him wrecked. Leave us both wrecked. Take all night.

I add, "I know a bar just around the corner."

That's currently closed. That'll be a shame. Better to just go back to my place for a few drinks.

He seems slightly taken aback, but his _eyes_, god. They darken slightly, the way they used to that summer. My pulse picks up, my palms begin to sweat. The rush I used to feel at the sight of him has changed. It's even worse now.

He clears his throat. "Look, I –"

He shuts up the instant that guy from the record store walks over, smiling his blissful puppy smile, looking at us both. Brendon's tensed up. The spell's been broken. I want to tell the guy to fuck off.

"Shit!" the guy – Shawn? Sherman? – laughs, smiling at us. "You guys already met! Aw, man, I wanted to do this big reunion thing!"

Brendon smiles and keeps his eyes on his beer bottle, taking a long, long sip, like he really needs alcohol right now. Why isn't he looking at me anymore?

"You two know each other?" I ask while Brendon asks, "You know Ryan?"

"He came to the store earlier today! Eric invited him to the party. And yeah, we're roommates," Sherman now informs me, still smiling brightly. "See, I always told Brendon you'd remember him! He said that the band hardly mingled with the roadies, that you two barely knew each other, but Brendon makes an impression, right?"

Brendon shoots me an alarmed look. Oh. I see.

Two years on, and I'm his dirty little secret.

I know I should be pleased that Brendon's not telling everyone he knows that he had a fling with Ryan Ross, damaging my reputation by spreading rumours that I like cock. I should be pleased, but I always knew he'd keep it to himself, anyway. I trusted him.

But there's a difference between omitting our affair and claiming that we hardly ever spoke.

"Bren makes an impression," I nod agreeingly. Sherman offers to go get me a beer, and Brendon starts saying that's really unnecessary, Ryan can probably afford his own beers, but I tell Sherman that really I'd love one. Anything to make him fuck off.

"You want one?" Sherman asks, hand on Brendon's shoulder.

"No, I'm good."

Sherman disappears into the crowd.

"Your friend's very... enthusiastic," I note.

"Shane's a big Followers fan," he shrugs, smiling like he thinks it's almost too ironic. The joke is lost on me.

I try to get back into it, pick up where we left off – me and him getting out of here, that bar, my bed, his skin – but Eric's arrived with a few guys, and then Shane's back with beers, and there's a crowd around me again, and Brendon remains silent, looking uncomfortable standing there, and I'm on edge, not knowing how to make these people leave us alone.

I blink, and he's vanished, slipped away masterfully. I try to relocate him, almost frantically, throat tightening because how can he be _gone_ again, already? But then I see him on the other side of the room where the coatroom is, and he's putting his jacket on. Shane's there, they're talking, and Brendon shakes his head dismissively and motions back to the room. Shane looks hesitant, like wondering if he should go too, but Brendon seems to convince him to stay.

Brendon's eyes sweep back towards us, but I don't think he can see me from the masses. It aches and burns and is suffocating, and he's clearly intending to leave when we just met for the first time. This is the only first time that will count.

But the club lights flash on his face, and then he's gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: A Golden Opportunity**

Jon tells me I've lost my focus. He's probably right.

Greta remains seated by the baby grand piano in the music room, playing _I Only Have Eyes for You_ to keep herself entertained. Jon and I lean back into the corner couch we've taken over, feet on the round coffee table. Jon looks unhappy, but at least we've got one song figured out, Greta's backup vocals finally in place. We could have done it in an hour, but it took us four.

Greta isn't bothered, singing, "You are here, so am I, maybe millions of people go by –"

"She can play piano so much better than you can," Jon notes. Well, of course she can – I'm a crappy pianist.

"– and I only have eyes for you."

Greta's lost in her own world, swaying to the music. It has a soothing effect on Jon, the tension seemingly draining out of him. Doesn't soothe me at all. My mind wanders, going in circles and creating infinite loops, the way it has been all week. It doesn't matter what I do – write music, get some sleep, drink with Gabe, have sex with Keltie, liven up a drug-hazed party in one of the bars on my block – it's constantly there. That feeling. Like someone's taken a blunt sword and stabbed it into my guts and now expects me to carry on like nothing's happened.

Greta finishes the song, and we clap accordingly. She turns around in the stool, the long locks of hair moving with her sudden movements. "I love your piano," she tells me with a big smile.

"And it loves you," I say, or rather my shell says automatically.

I shouldn't have let him slip away. I should have made him stay. It's like I've finally placed him on a map, and now I am terrified he is going to vanish again. Maybe he went home and started packing. That's what he plans to do with his life – hide from me. Drive me insane.

"Do you think I should wear gold or green tonight?" Greta now asks, like Jon and I would somehow know. Greta does that all the time – assume we're her girl friends. We're really not. "It's our third anniversary," she explains with a dream-like look. "We met around eleven o'clock, and our first kiss was at one..."

Jon looks astonished. "How can you remember something like that? I have _no_ idea when Cassie and I first kissed."

"Because you two were drunk and too young," I supply.

Jon casts me a side-glance. "Yeah, we were kinda drunk. And young."

I'm not sure how old Jon must have been when that happened. Fifteen, maybe? They've been together forever. More than a decade. A _decade_, and they still aren't bored of each other, are still in love. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself.

"When you meet your soul mate, you remember," Greta says simply, and Jon looks insulted, but Greta always says things that she doesn't realise offend others. Jon knows she doesn't mean it. Greta's now staring into space, eyes unfocused like she sees things the rest of us can't. "Planets align... the universe pauses... your lips hover over his, and you can almost taste him already. You almost know how soft those lips are going to be... full. Perfect."

I feel myself slipping into her daydream. A voice rings in my head, an alarmed 'What are you doing?' and then my own voice, trying to be cocky: 'Pitying you.' Right there next to the tour bus. The urgency of our lips, the barely controlled want, the –

"See, he remembers," Greta says, smirking. I snap out of it. They're both staring at me. I feel like I've been caught red-handed.

"I don't remember my first kiss with Keltie. I was thinking about something else." My tone is defensive for no reason.

"I'll go with gold," Greta then concludes, probably having realised that we're no help with this. "Now I only need to buy Butcher a record. Should I go for Frank or Otis? What's more romantic?"

She turns back around and starts playing Sinatra, and I go get us all some beers from the kitchen, the music echoing all around my apartment. I open a beer and lean against the kitchen counter, gulping it down thirstily. My skin feels itchy.

I should have asked him where in Brooklyn he lives, what he does. His phone number. But no, I stood there, engulfed by the crowd, letting them swallow me down as he did the smart thing and took off.

And Jon asks me why I can't seem to concentrate.

My fingers tap against the counter, creating a nonsense rhythm, irregular and frantic. It doesn't matter that it's a city of millions when it feels like the only existence worth acknowledging is his.

I open a second beer, and I'm halfway through it when Jon walks into the kitchen, eyebrow quirked. "So it's self-service around here, then?"

"Shit. Sorry."

Jon grabs the one beer left on the counter, originally meant for Greta, who seems to be having a go at the mandolin right now. Her voice competes with the soft melodies. Jon pulls one of the chairs from the round kitchen table, taking a seat and keeping his calm, brown eyes on me. His hair is almost down to his shoulders, stubble decorating his chin. For a second, I feel like he knows, but then I realise that Jon is clueless. I haven't known him for that long, after all. I flew to Chicago for a beer when I got the news about his band having split, and we ended up writing fourteen songs in nine days. Most of the songs that we've written we've scrapped as not being good enough, but now we finally have twenty or so songs we think have potential to be magnificent.

But Jon still can't read me like Gabe does, and I've only known Gabe half the time I've known Jon. I hope it's got nothing to do with our shared tendency to practise sodomy, that if Jon fucked both sexes, then he'd read me as easily as Gabe. But Jon knows why I'm here. For the music. And if the music's not working, then something is up.

"What's on your mind?" he asks.

"No one. I mean nothing."

Brendon didn't seem mad. That's important. I was in there, I was in the game, and then that annoying –

"Shit," I blurt out.

Jon looks baffled. "Shit's on your mind?"

That guy. Brendon's roommate.

"No, I –"

I'm an idiot, having spent a week wondering how to find him again, if I need to wander around Brooklyn in hopes of just running into him magically. God, I'm an idiot. I forgot about that guy.

"I need to get going," Greta informs us from the doorway, buttoning her long winter jacket. "I need to go buy Butcher his present."

I ask, "Which record shop you heading to?"

"One of Eric's, of course."

Eric's. I finish the rest of the beer in one go.

Ten minutes later, Greta and I wave Jon off, and he looks after us like he really can't figure out what on earth is happening. We get a taxi in the corner, and Greta spends the ride talking to the driver about the negative energy his honking creates and how he should maybe whistle instead to create positive vibes. It doesn't seem to sink in with the guy, but Greta isn't dispirited, and her smile is so contagious that the guy lets her get away with it.

I pay for the cab, seeing as I'm not a starving artist like Greta, and she links arms with me as we walk towards the record store. I said that we should go to the original, even though there's one newer store that's closer to my place.

"It's so nice of you to help me choose," she beams.

I remain neutral. "Anytime."

The bell above the door rings. The stuffy record store is surprisingly crowded for a late Wednesday afternoon, kids pouring over LPs, flipping one after the other. _Technical Ecstasy_ is blaring in the background, a kid nodding his head to the beat as an aggressive guitar solo erupts. Greta and I make our way towards the counter. I hang my head in an attempt to hide. I shouldn't walk into a place as potentially dangerous as this on my own; I should call Vicky and have her take care of security measures, or at least ask Gabe to tag along. You write some music and spend the rest of your life apologising for it.

I don't recognise the guy behind the counter, just some kid that I know I could see a dozen times but never remember the look of, but he recognises me instantly. I told Joe it was a stupid idea to have our faces plastered on the back cover of _Her House_, but no, wouldn't listen. And then the fame happened, and then our faces were everywhere, anyway, so it didn't matter anymore. I still blame Joe for it. It's easier to have a focal point.

"Hey," I tell the guy before he can speak. Sometimes, it's better to take control of the situation before it escalates and he blurts out who I am to the entire shop. "You got any Otis in here?"

The guy blinks, pale and shocked. "In the R section."

"I'll go have a look!" Greta says and marches off to check the R's.

"A-Anything else I can do for you?" the kid asks nervously, blinking too much.

"Yeah, actually," I say, lowering my voice and making sure Greta is out of earshot. She thinks I'm here for her, after all. "I'm looking for a guy that works here. Kind of tall, broad shoulders, brown hair down to here?" I say, motioning. The guy shakes his head with a frown. "He looks like a puppy when he gets excited."

"Oh! Shane!"

"Yeah, that's the guy. He's not working today then?"

"No, afraid not. He used to be full-time, but he's only part-time now. Sorry. He dropped by earlier, though, to leave these." He motions at a pile of flyers on the counter with a trembling hand. "You want to leave him a message or...?" His tone is breathy like he can't believe he's talking to me, but it's also sceptical like he can't believe I'm asking after Shane.

I've picked up one of the flyers: an exhibition. Shane Valdes. A gallery I've never heard of somewhere in the Lower East Side. Opening tomorrow.

"He's a painter?" I ask incredulously.

"Photographer. Takes pictures. And stuff."

He sounds awed. I wonder if he has Shane's address or phone number. He probably shouldn't give me that information even if he had them, but he just might to avoid saying no to me.

Greta comes back before I can ask, holding _King & Queen_ in one hand, _Songs for Young Lovers_ in the other. She looks torn, and I say, "Get Butch both." When she seems to hesitate, I snatch them from her. "I'll pay."

"No, you really –"

"End of conversation."

She looks guilty but then flashes a grateful smile at me. She doesn't admit that she might not have money for both. I found her in a smoky jazz bar one night, singing to a half-empty room, and most of those present weren't listening to her at all. But I saw her, and I listened to her, and I was captivated by her. The only people clapping in between songs were Butcher, a drunken girl and me.

She might not have the money for both albums now, but I'll make a star out of her. When we get the new album out and go on our first tour, she's coming to support us, opening every show with her angelic voice. She says the only good thing that has happened to her in New York has been that time Paul Simon fucked her, because the next day when she was coming down from the acid trip, panties lost in the rough and tumble of the night, one shoe missing, she decided to just go sit down in Central Park and calm herself down. Butcher was drawing caricatures by the Reservoir. He drew one of her and walked over to give it to her. They went back to his place, she showered, and they spent the next two days making love. She never left.

A few months ago, Butcher's friend of a friend hooked Greta up to play at the Blue Note. I walked in, searching for liquor and solace. I heard her voice, saintly and pure.

It's all connected. That's what she says, anyway.

Two years, and she'll be swimming in money. As for now, I've got her covered.

"Thank you," she says when we walk back outside. "Butcher's going to love these!"

"Don't mention it," I tell her, and she gives me a big hug as a goodbye. For no rational reason, I look around after we pull back, like somehow Keltie's standing somewhere near-by. I know she'd get pissed about Greta hugging me. We have a musical connection that Keltie can't compete with.

A stupid thing, being jealous of Greta. Her heart's completely taken, and if anything, I think I've started viewing her as my non-blood related, lost in her world sister. She waves me goodbye, two records snugly under one arm, and I stuff my hands in my pockets as I slowly start heading back home.

In my pocket, my thumb and index finger trace the folded flyer for an exhibition of some random guy who happens to know another guy who in turn is not random in any way.

It's stupid being jealous of Greta.

"The Fall of Brooklyn," Gabe says, sounding sceptical. "Isn't Brooklyn depressing enough without this guy dedicating an entire exhibition to it?"

"Maybe. Just found the flyer in the coffee shop this morning, thought what the hell," I shrug, eyes flying over shop fronts, trying to find the gallery. It was either this or a Rockette performance, and I saw one two months back, anyway. Fine, it's a new routine now, but I've seen Keltie doing half of it in my living room, pushing the couches out of her way and making the entire world her stage. She has shows all the time, and she knows I'm busy. "I think that's it," I finally say, pointing across the street.

The gallery turns out to be a spacious room with high ceilings and white walls, framed photographs all around and a buffet table at the back. A dozen people are examining the art on display. Gabe stops in the doorway next to me. "Ryan. Dude. Let's just go get pissed at that bar we passed."

I card my hair quickly, hoping it's not too much of a mess. "No, let's check this out. I'll buy you a drink later, I swear."

Gabe sighs dramatically, but I don't actually need to bribe him. We do most things together, anyway. People are calling Gabe my sidekick. He doesn't mind. On the contrary, he takes pride in the fact that I've become dependent on his company. I can count on him to keep my secrets, to drink up, get fucked up, to have my back if shit gets rough. I can't trust many people anymore. Gabe has become irreplaceable in a matter of months, but it feels natural. If Gabe wasn't accompanying me to an art exhibition, he'd be accompanying me to some other event.

We leave our coats on the stand by the door. Gabe heads straight for the buffet table where wine glasses stand in a row. A guy, who is clearly a critic, is by one of the pictures with a small notepad, glasses low on his nose. He is mumbling to himself, staring at the frame in deep concentration and clearly feeling important. Then I see Shane on the other side of the room. He's eyeing the critic, looking pale and nervous and approximately forty-seven seconds from vomiting.

Then he sees me, and his nauseous expression mixes with an astounded one. "Ryan! Hey!" he says, waving, and I try my best to look surprised as I walk over.

"I know you," I say vaguely.

"Yeah! Shane! I work for Eric! Remember?"

"Ah! Right! I remember now! What you doing here?" I ask with innocent curiosity, and he starts explaining how it's his exhibition, stumbling on his words from excitement, trying to find out how on earth I'm here. I say that it's pure coincidence, happened to walk by, always liked photography, nice black and white shots, and _oh_, the title is a pun – most of the pictures are of falling leaves, rotten leaves, puddles filled with leaves – a fall, ha ha, how witty, of course I'd like a glass of wine, thank you, that's thoughtful, oh hey, is Brendon here?

"He's supposed to be, yeah," Shane says, looking upset.

He hurries to get me a drink, and Gabe returns, looking after Shane. "I know him. He's that guy from Eric's, the one with heart eyes for you. What's he doing here?"

"He's the photographer," I supply, and Gabe freezes. I busy myself avoiding his eyes. The critic's spotted us and is now looking at me instead of the art, scribbling more furiously into his notepad.

When Shane comes back with a drink, someone calls him over to presumably discuss his art, and he looks devastated to leave me but reluctantly does, telling me to enjoy the show and that he'll be back shortly. "Just don't go anywhere," he adds nervously.

Gabe takes my wine glass from me and finishes it. He wipes his mouth to the back of his hand and says, "Why are we _actually_ at the exhibition of your latest fan boy?"

I try shrugging in a c'est la vie, crazier shit has happened way, but Gabe isn't buying it. I make sure no one is within earshot when I lower my voice and say, "Okay, so Shane kind of knows a guy that I... want to see. I figured he might be here."

I try to be vague and not insinuate too much with it, but Gabe instantly looks intrigued. He probably sees it as a big game. "So you're _chasing_ a guy," he says, sounding surprised.

Fuck it. Maybe I am.

"He and I –"

"No, no, don't spoil it!" he stops me, and I'm relieved I don't have to try and explain what the deal there is. Even I don't know. There are only two options: seeing Brendon again or never seeing him again. I can't choose the latter. "Look at you scheming," Gabe grins. "Clever little thing."

I'm not scheming. Going out of my way to be here and coming up with transparent fabrications do not count as scheming. That makes it sound like I've got a choice. I don't.

"I need a drink," I conclude. We start peering at the pictures, seeing as that's the point. I look to the door whenever I hear it open, hoping that my cover is convincing enough for Brendon. I know what he's like, or what he used to be like, anyway. To this day, he is still the only person I've met who'd choose not to have me. It might happen again. And if he tries to run for it, I'll be the first to remind him that there was a time when I didn't have to chase him, when I had him good and proper. When he was asking me to choose him.

I've been thinking about it ever since. He claimed that I was confused and didn't know what I wanted. Fuck him. Fuck that. He should look in the mirror – what the hell did he want? Pushing me away one minute, asking me to stay the next. _I_ was confused? He should talk.

Brendon needs to think that it's coincidence. He needs to fall into my trap without realising it. Then, when he awakens and realises the mess he's gotten himself into, namely me, it'll be too late.

As for now, I have to wait.

The pictures are good, but dull. Shane's clearly talented, but how many drooping leaves do I need to see against ugly Brooklyn facades?

One catches my attention. It's one of the rare ones with a person in it – bits of a person, anyway, half a face that the frame cuts off, a face that's looking down, hair messily everywhere and over the eyes, lips twisting upwards shyly. Beyond Brendon's shoulder is an out-of-focus street. It's a black and white shot. It's also the best picture of Brendon ever taken. There's something so familiar in it, something tangible, and I feel like I could step into the picture, lift his chin with one finger, make his eyes meet mine, lean in and –

"Is that the same guy?" Gabe asks, motioning between the photograph and the doorway.

My eyes instantly fly between the two, as if to compare, before taking a step backwards to hide behind Gabe. "Looks like it," I say with as much composure as I can. Brendon doesn't even know how easy he's making finding him.

The dreamlike feeling of seeing him hasn't gone anywhere. I was pretty drunk the last time, and I was in shock, but now I'm sober and nervous as hell. It's not a scared kind of nervous but an excited one. Brendon's stepped inside, and he's looking around the gallery quickly, getting his jacket off with swift movements.

"Let's play the Who You'd Fuck game," Gabe then says, relying on his ultimate source of entertainment when he's desperately bored. He nods towards Brendon. "Him."

"Can't have him."

"Well, I know that," Gabe says with a roll of his eyes. "Men don't tend to swing that way, that's why it's called a game. Jesus, don't rain on my parade."

Shane's now going over to Brendon, and I have a few seconds left before artist of the week there blurts out that Ryan Ross is present. Brendon looks stressed out, an apologetic look on his face, and I hurry my words as I say, "He's a fag." I finish my drink in one go.

"He is?"

"Yeah. And also mine."

Realisation dawns on Gabe's face. He gives Brendon a quick check, and Brendon's talking to Shane, who seems jumpy and nervous, and then Gabe turns back to me and glares. "Screw you, Mr. Rockstar. Always have to take the best ones."

"One of the many afflictions that come with my hazardous lifestyle," I say mournfully before walking on to the next photograph, trying to look like I'm transfixed in the art. I don't need to look over to know Brendon's been informed of my presence when I can practically feel his eyes on me. Gabe follows my lead, pretending fascination in a picture of a puddle, and I ask, "What's he doing?"

Gabe takes a casual look around the gallery before looking at the photograph again. "Talking to your wannabe groupie and trying hard not to look our way. He looks kind of tense."

Good, that –

"Oh, they're coming over."

I flinch despite myself and then put on a cordial smile when they reach us. Shane's leading, and Brendon looks uncomfortable. I try to look surprised and say, "Oh. Hey, there." Brendon's face isn't tainted by disco lights this time – his face is manlier than it was two years ago. Older. More mature. There's not as much sparkle in his eyes as I remember there having been, but I'm not sure if that's age or my presence.

"He decided to show up after all," Shane laughs, nodding at Brendon.

"Nightmare getting here," Brendon says simply, a reserved look on his face. He didn't seem mad last week, but he definitely isn't dying from excitement either.

Gabe is staring at Brendon curiously, like he's trying to figure out what it is about him that has me coming to some shitty gallery in the Lower East Side in hopes of arranging a chance meeting.

"Oh, this is Gabe, our bassist," I quickly say because Gabe is staring in a rather unsubtle way. "Gabe, this is Brendon."

"Encantado," Gabe says, offering his hand. Brendon shakes it quickly, and Gabe grins broadly.

"A step up from Brent," Brendon notes coolly, and I hold back a scoff. Brent spent the summer treating Brendon like a servant there for his convenience, Brendon's sexuality only adding to his pre-existing inferiority. Don't think Brent ever said one nice thing to Brendon. And then when Joe told the entire band that we... Well. Brent lost the little bits of courtesy he still had.

Shane, however, looks unnerved, like he's petrified Brendon had the guts to criticise my former bandmate to my face. "I'm sure Brendon didn't mean that, he –"

"That's okay," I say easily, shrugging. "Between you and me?" I ask, glancing around conspiratorially and lowering my voice, "Brent's a cunt."

Gabe lets out a burst of laughter, grinning, and Shane looks confused but laughs forcedly, anyway. Brendon smiles down at his shoes. I'm making him smile. One defence at a time.

"So you've got a new band then?" Shane asks excitedly, but still with an edge to his words. Oh, right. He's a fan. He lives in the illusion that bands are divine matches, living together in perfect harmony. I might just have fractured his heart. He explains, "I read your interview in The Rolling Stone in the summer. It said you were writing music, but it didn't mention a band. I thought you'd push out a solo album."

"I thought about it," I admit. It seemed like a safer option – I don't get along with people when it comes to music. But then I heard about Canadian History splitting up, and I remembered Jon, and I could still even remember the few songs we wrote. They were still as good. Tried calling him, but someone else picked up and said Jon no longer lived there. They had Jon's new address, though, so I flew up to Chicago. We settled on starting a band roughly a day later. Cassie didn't look too happy. She clearly had hoped that Jon was done with music.

"What are you called?" Shane asks, and I shrug. I have no idea. Instead I look at Gabe.

"Eh," Gabe says, "we're still debating about it. I mean, you've got Ryan, then Jon, Patrick and I kind of form the band. We're gonna be called Ryan Ross and something. Patrick liked The Whiskeys."

"Really?" I ask because they haven't kept me up to date. Ryan Ross and The Whiskeys. Sums up my life rather eloquently. "Oh, I get it. Johnny Walker. Right. He's the only whiskey, though."

"Patrick and I drink enough to compensate," Gabe grins broadly, but Brendon is now looking at me like he can't believe what he's hearing.

"Jon Walker's in your band? Canadian History Jon Walker?"

"Yeah. Plays guitar. And then Patrick's the drummer."

"Technically," Gabe adds in. "You should see this guy – he plays any instrument known to man. Doesn't look like much but give him a violin or a banjo, and he just goes off like –"

"Wait. Patrick as in... Patrick Stump?" Brendon asks, and now is my turn to look surprised. Shane looks like he's equally unaware and confused, and Brendon says, "I know him. From around, I mean. Music stuff. He's in a _band_ with you?"

"For eight full days now," Gabe says. "Great guy."

"But- Last month, he was stuck doing mic nights!" Brendon objects, like Patrick has risen above his station, which is exactly what he has done. It's not like Patrick has never been in bands – he says he's been in at least a dozen. Those bands have just never gotten anywhere, and now he's gotten to join my crew. He was this close to giving up and sticking to the book store for the rest of his life. I swooped in and saved him from mediocrity.

"I recognised his talent," I say simply. "And that one, Shane? It's really good." I point to the frame that has Brendon in it. Shane beams at me. He gets called over by someone else just then, leaving Brendon behind as he goes to talk to a woman, who seems to be thinking about buying one of Shane's works. "So you know Patrick from music circles?" I ask Brendon because he looks like he's searching for a quick escape.

"You write music?" Gabe asks with genuine interest. He's still giving Brendon this _look_, and then he keeps glancing at me, and he's got a glint in his eyes like he's figuring this out.

"Oh, yeah. Guitar, bass, drums, piano, this and that," Brendon shrugs. "I've been writing some songs. I've got a friend helping me out, and we're just kind of messing around. It's going really well. Open mic nights here and there. Still really casual. There's potential there, though."

"Huh," I note, unable to hide my surprise. Brendon's jaw sets tight, and I explain, "I just never got the impression you wanted to pursue music. That's all."

"You guys seem to go well back," Gabe says, and Brendon quickly corrects him and says that not really, we barely know each other at all, he was just a roadie for us once. If Brendon was hoping to avoid speculation, he just fucked it up. He might pick up on it, not sure. Either way, he quickly says that he could really do with a mini-sandwich and heads to the buffet table. Like he doesn't want to talk to me. Gabe watches him go. "I guess he made being on the road a hell of a lot more fun, am I right?"

I smirk. "You have _no_ idea."

Gabe laughs, and I ignore the momentary flash of annoyance. It's not Gabe's business what happened that summer and definitely not what Brendon was like in bed either. Gabe understands sex, though, so I'll speak his language. And it's not like Gabe's far off – I want to fuck Brendon. Monogamy is one thing, Brendon another. I can get away with it. It's Brendon.

I try not to look at Brendon too much as he's now pouring himself a glass of wine, but instead I try to come up with a reason to go talk to him. He doesn't want to talk, that's for sure. He's just forgotten what we had, how we – He just needs to be reminded. That's all. Then he'll realise it's fate that we've met, a golden opportunity, and we can't let that slide. _He_ can't let it slide. I just need to get through to him while letting him think he's making the calls.

But suddenly, Brendon seems to have vanished. The glass he was using is now empty on the corner of the table. He drank fast. Gabe's staring at a picture of a dog pensively, and Shane's talking to the critic, a handful of people chatter here and there in the gallery, nodding their heads thoughtfully like assessing the art on display, but Brendon's nowhere. His coat is still hanging on the coat stand, though, and then I see him outside through the gallery window, shoulders drawn up and hair messy in the wind.

"Gabe, I'm going out for a smoke."

"Yeah, sure," he returns, not looking at me. He points at the picture. "I like this one. That dog is cute."

I pass Shane on my way to the door, ignoring how he stalls slightly like he wants to talk or make sure I'm not leaving but then doesn't have the balls to say anything. I throw my coat on, get out a cigarette and step outside. Brendon's on the other side of the window, leaning against the brick wall and smoking. It's late November, and the sun has set, and he's wearing a black dress shirt that cannot be keeping him warm.

I try my best to look taken aback by his presence. "Oh. Hey."

He glances at me. He's smoking the cigarette energetically, sucking on it like his life depends on it. His hair falls over his eyes a lot more than it used to. Looks good on him. His brown eyes give nothing away. It's a wall that he had when we met, but I broke through it. Since then, he's thrown me out and rebuilt it, twice as thick this time. Clever boy.

He says nothing.

"You got a light?" I ask and make my way over. Silently, he gets out a lighter, igniting a flame that flickers, and he protects it with his hand as I lean in to light the tip of my cigarette. It's an excuse to stand too close to him and not to step back once the job is done. "Thanks, man."

He pockets the lighter and looks down the street, two fingers firmly holding the cigarette to his lips. Just as I think he has no plans of saying anything, he asks, "What are you doing here?"

I blink. "Where? Oh. The exhibition?" His silence answers for him, and I shrug. "We were just walking by with Gabe, and he loves photography and shit, so I decided to indulge him. Small world, right?" I chance a look through the window and into the gallery where Gabe is yawning and heading for the buffet table for more booze. "That's Gabe. An art lover."

"You don't seem surprised to see me," he says, still just as scrutinising.

"Well, no. Shane told me you were coming." I leave it there, not wanting to push my luck. Refrain from a B class line like 'Guess the universe wants us to meet' because he wouldn't buy it. Brendon's not that type of a romantic, if at all, and the universe doesn't give a fuck. "Still kind of weird, right? Bumping into each other."

"Yeah." His voice doesn't show any enthusiasm, interest or excitement over the thought. He's making me work for it. He always did. Fucker.

"You disappeared pretty fast from the party last week. Didn't get the chance to catch up properly."

He shrugs nonchalantly, and he's getting pretty damn good at this not-looking-me-in-the-eyes thing he's got going. He's almost done with the cigarette, so I offer him another one, and he accepts it silently, lighting it up and going back to what I think he plans to develop into chain-smoking. I smoke my own languidly, in no rush at all. He's the one that's probably freezing.

Brendon says, "I heard you moved to London."

"Never officially. I spent a lot of time there. On and off, back and forth..." I trail off, shrugging. "Then I decided to move to New York."

"Why?"

"Felt like I needed a change. Met some people."

"Like Jon Walker," he says, and he almost spits it out, and I can't figure out why. The first time I met Jon, he was looking for Brendon because they planned on getting trashed together. Jon was teaching Brendon to play poker. Brendon kept laughing and smiling so fucking brightly, and I have seen that only a few times since. Brendon looks at me in disbelief. "You don't remember." He flicks hair from his forehead and stares across the street. "After a show, I don't remember what city we were at, they all blurred in together. But their drummer? The –"

"Of course I remember. St. Louis." I stare at him solemnly. "I remember."

Blood. Crimson. All the yelling. Brendon was angrier than I've ever seen him, even more so than he ever was at me, and that's saying something. Blood dripping from his nose, bruises the next few days. Spent my time watching them fade and change colours. I don't mix well with blood anymore. It's too messy. Blood, broken glass, rain, flashing ambulance lights, Spencer unconscious and not waking up, William in shock and shouting that Spencer was dead, and it was dark and in the middle of the night, and I could barely see the thick, red liquid rolling down my arm, but I could smell it. The iron. I could taste it.

Brendon took a punch from Jon's former bandmate. He'd seen nothing. But I can't judge other people's misgivings based on the gravity of my own, and the memory of St. Louis has somehow gained weight over time, affecting me more than it ever did when it really happened. I just forgot that Brendon never found out that Jon had nothing to do with it.

"Jon's a good guy," I say defensively. I haven't started a band with a homophobic asshole, though I honestly have no idea how Jon feels about things like that. Jon is a pretty traditional guy, but he's been on the road and he's seen plenty of crazy shit. There's still a massive difference between strangers doing something and your own friend doing it. Doesn't matter what Jon thinks. It'll never affect the band because no one finds out about my sex life. Simple as that. "He had nothing to do with that asshole having a go at you. Brent's the one who told their drummer in the first place."

"Does it matter?" Brendon counters. "Jon just stood there and let it happen."

"The guy was Jon's friend. You were just an acquaintance," I point out, but Brendon's expression darkens further. I probably can't win on this one. He's too unconditional, is what he is. When it comes to gay rights or all that nonsense, he gets defensive. He knows he can't expect the world to ever accept him, and that's precisely why he tries so hard. I try to direct the conversation elsewhere with, "So you're writing music, huh? I'd love to check it out."

"We do mic nights every now and then," he says dismissively.

"What do you do the rest of the time?"

He glances at me quickly. "Gig promoter. Yeah, I – It's this company, organises concerts. I work for them. I call managers and set things up. Mostly book bands for smaller venues around Manhattan. Great job. Plenty of fun. Making valuable contacts." That's the only world I could ever see him in, anyway. Hanging out backstage, dirty clothes and tour weariness all over. He's still lingering around. "I'm just really busy with everything. My music's not been a priority lately. The past month, we've been trying to get Shane's exhibition ready." He nods towards the gallery. "He's really talented."

I look through the window to see Gabe and Shane talking. "He's alright," I shrug. The artwork is hardly awe-inducing.

"He's a visionary," Brendon says firmly. He's got defiance in his tone for a reason I can't figure out. "He does short films too, not just photography. Our apartment's full of his cameras and things. He did documentaries back in San Francisco."

"You guys moved out here together?"

Brendon nods. "I followed him here."

"You're a good friend." Brendon gets a twisted smile on his face. He knows something I don't. "What?"

He takes a deep drag and exhales before saying, "He's my partner."

I keep staring. Have they co-founded a company or what?

"As in my boyfriend. Lover. Whatever you want to call it, that's what he is."

"What?" I laugh. He's bullshitting me now. My eyes find Shane inside the gallery again, trying to visualise him with Brendon but can't. "That guy?" I clarify, trying to find the joke, but Brendon just nods. "He said you're roommates. _Several_ times."

"This isn't The Castro. Landlords don't want fags living in their apartments," he says with a roll of his eyes. "We say we're roommates. We keep the second bedroom for clutter and try to keep it quiet at night. We're not _really_ roommates."

My immediate response is 'fuck you', but I bite it back. His tone is obnoxious, his choice of words deliberate. Not roommates, keeping it quiet at night. Okay. Got it. No need to fill my mind with images of them fucking, tone full of insinuation. That guy? _That_ guy? Mr. 'Oh My God, Ryan Ross' with the puppy look of the month, the guy who snaps pictures of puddles and calls it art? Shane's handsome, I took note of that the first time I met him, but looks aren't everything.

That guy's not right for Brendon. Anyone can see that.

"I thought you were too cute to settle down." Brendon quirks an eyebrow, and I say, "One of the first things I ever heard you say was that you were too cute to settle down." My words are an accusation. In my thoughts, he was fucking every guy in San Francisco, living it up and causing a riot, not playing house with some part-time record store employee.

"I met the right guy," Brendon says simply, now finishing his cigarette and stubbing it against the wall. He steps forward and looks into the gallery. He smiles when he spots Shane. "Shane's amazing. He's funny and he's smart and he's kind and he's loving..." he lists, then turns to me. "I'm really lucky. We're really happy."

Throw it in my face, then. Immature brat.

"Sounds great. I'm in a relationship too, actually." I accompany my words with a modest shrug.

"You are?" he asks, smiling like he's expecting an amusing punch line. "Don't tell me you and Jac are still together."

"Please." One of the first things I did at the hospital was call Jac and tell her not to bother rushing up north to check up on us. It was over. I didn't want to see her. It wasn't that easy, and it got ugly and stuff got thrown around, us name-calling each other through gritted teeth. She and Joe had a fling the following spring, or so I heard. Both just wanted revenge. "No, I'm seeing this new girl. Have been since this spring, actually. Keltie's the real deal. She's a dancer. She's just, god, she's just gorgeous, you know? Dancers. Their bodies are just – There are muscles you didn't know existed. Blonde hair, pair of brown eyes... Fantastic girl."

I can't read his expression at all.

He says, "I'm happy for you."

Fuck you.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm happy for me too," I declare. "I'm doing really well. Who says people can't change, right?"

"Agreed," he says, like it's that simple. "I know I'm a different person now." He sounds contemplative but matter-of-fact. Defiant, almost.

He looks different, sounds different, acts different. But he's not.

He, if anyone, should know that you can never actually leave your past behind, but here he is, the epitome of self-improvement, like I knew a more primitive and lesser form of him. He wasn't a full person then, but now he's complete. Not completed by me, not at all. He's making damn sure I don't accidentally think that. He nods at the building. "I better head back inside. Chilly out here. But good, you know. Knowing that you're doing well."

"Yeah. You too."

And he smiles at me, the way you'd smile to a stranger, or to someone you know you're never going to see again, awkward but comforting like the encounter was not as unpleasant as it could have been. I want to snatch a hold of his shoulders and ask if he's fucking kidding me here. If he's done. Because it seems to me like he is, but he's not allowed to be if I'm not.

He goes back inside, and I stand where I am, mind racing. My throat feels tight, an angry burn deep in my guts. Through the window, I see Shane smiling at Brendon warmly. They keep their hands to themselves, but I can't unsee it now – the two of them together. Going back home tonight and cuddling in their bed. Brendon with his nine-to-five job, mingling with music industry bastards, demonstrating his talent in mic nights. Going places. Happy and content.

The last time I saw him, he didn't have a job. He didn't have a place to stay. He owned a guitar, some clothes, a boxful of crap, and he said no to me, like he knew that some day he would achieve things far greater than me. And not greater in terms of fame or prestige or legend, because only a handful of living musicians are competing with me in those categories, but greater in terms of what really matters. Love, friendship, loyalty... Home. The things he didn't think I'd give. The things he thought I didn't include in my offer of letting him be my dirty secret. He was right. Those things weren't included, but I thought it should have been enough, anyway.

Here he is, telling me that he made the right call when he told me to leave. That he's so much happier for it.

Gabe comes outside, looking puzzled. "You okay?" he asks, buttoning up his jacket. I say nothing, but he looks inside where Brendon and Shane are. "You two rendezvousing later then? There's that shitty hotel around the corner that we passed." He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He stares at me in confusion before his expression clears. "Ooh!" he laughs teasingly. "Ryan Ross got turned down!"

"I said I –"

"Oh, come on! Cheer up!"

I stuff my hands in my pockets and hurry down the street because I refuse to stand outside the gallery, knee deep in rejection. I could fuck half of New York if I wanted to, I could sleep with most of my friends' girlfriends or wives, I could rob a bank and still get votes of sympathy because I'm not just anyone. I mean something to everyone. But not to him. He brushes me off and goes back to his boyfriend.

Gabe says, "I'm sure he'll come around. Even _I'd_ fuck you. I just worry it'd ruin our beautiful friendship."

His voice is still grinning, and I snap, "Fuck off."

It's not that funny that I got turned down. And not just by some chick or some guy, but –

Gabe sighs, now falling into step next to me. He is quiet for an unusually long time for him, like he grasps the gravity of the situation a little. "I bought that print of the dog, by the way. It was cute. Shane seemed really happy about it."

Fucking fantastic. Now Shane's making money out of me trying to hook up with his boyfriend. All that time Shane was talking to me, nervous, shy, excited... All that time he had one on me. Going home to Brendon. Slipping into bed with him. Lazy Sunday morning sex. Brendon's smile. Shane doesn't even fucking know what he's got.

"You still owe me a drink for going," Gabe says, reminding me of my earlier promise.

"I owe _myself_ a drink for going."

We head to the bar we passed on the way, and I keep my fists shut tight, pissed off at everything and everyone.

So Brendon's found love.

Well, I'll drink to that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Someone Else's Dream**

"Oh my god, get off me!" Keltie laughs, shoving me backwards half-heartedly.

"No," I say simply, still trying to make her put down the newspaper and have sex with me. Takes two to tango. My attempts are proving fruitless, though. She's in my bed, under the covers with me, and she's only wearing a white top and pink panties, which is a hell of a turn on, and she is honestly expecting me to accept the fact that she'd rather read the paper than fuck me. Should we not be _worried_?

I go back to kissing her neck, one of her weak spots, but she squirms, still holding her newspaper with one hand, pushing me back with the other.

"Ryan, we had sex _twice_ last night," she protests, and I can feel the way her body is saying no to my advances. I let myself slump against her, draping over her a little, but she doesn't seem to mind. She only readjusts the big glasses on her nose and keeps reading, the newspaper folded, her hand moving to my hair and carding softly as she reads. I try rubbing her left breast, see if I can get a reaction, but she smacks my hand away even though her nipple hardens. I'm not hard, but I _could_ be, and we could kick off this day with some decent, half-assed sex, and then we could walk around all day with that 'I've gotten laid' glow about us, pissing off single people.

"This is sad," I argue.

"There, there." She pats my head. "I am sure we will have more sex some day. Do not lose faith."

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. She's focused on the culture section, but I'm restless. I'm always restless. "Would you say we're happy?"

She lowers the newspaper. "Huh?"

"Like, if someone asked you about us. Would you say we're happy or would you say that we're _really_ happy? I mean, if you say you're _really_ happy, do you think that implies you have more sex than just normally happy couples?"

She keeps staring at me. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Nothing." I suck in a breath. "Never mind."

She gives me a confused look and then goes back to reading. I'm not mad at her. It's not her fault.

"You're in the paper," she then informs me.

"Yeah? What this time? That I moved to New York to pursue a modelling career, intent on leaving music behind?"

"No, listen. 'Rock icon Ryan Ross –'" I snort, but she keeps going, "'– was the most eye-catching piece of art present.' It's a review for an exhibition. Did you go to this thing? It says that – Wait, here. 'As a pioneer of modern music, it is clear that Ross sees the potential that may escape a less observant eye.' Guy's called Valdes." She lowers the papers and peers at me. "I didn't know you liked art."

"Gabe and I accidentally stumbled into that place a few nights back. The photography wasn't even that good."

"Well, he's going to be selling them now. The critic concludes that it had to be good stuff since you were there."

How fucking nice.

I get out of bed, crossing the short distance to the bathroom door. Keltie stays in bed, and I leave the bathroom door ajar, a slight invitation. She should come in and distract me. I pull my boxers off and hit the shower.

She probably won't take me up on my silent offer because we _did_ have sex twice last night, which is pretty okay for a couple that's been together for... um... She keeps track of the anniversaries, not me. Seven months, maybe? So if we still fuck twice a night every now and then, that's a decent score.

Okay, twice is laughable. Rewind a few years, and it was nothing.

Joe and I had a pretty fucked up competition going on our first headlining tour. I'm pretty sure I was winning, but then Spencer said that he would not live in a bus filled with dirty panties, Jesus Christ, and he threw our hard earned trophies out of the window somewhere between Wichita and Kansas City.

I never beat Joe's record of five chicks in one night, excluding threesomes and foursomes because those were considered cheating. It was fun at the time, but then it lost its meaning, and girls changed from something to chase into predators, and suddenly, I was the one being chased, and they weren't satisfied with a quick fuck either. They all wanted songs written about them.

And then Brendon came along. Or the old Brendon, it seems. It would have been gracious of him to let me know that he decided to become a new person. Send a postcard, call me, use William as a middleman. Inform the world that he was done fooling around and wanted to settle down. Because I would have talked him out of it. I would have been there in time to stop this. He never stopped to ask for my permission. I wouldn't have granted it.

He keeps doing this, starting a new life every three or four fucking years, disowning what came before. Life doesn't work like that. I bet anything that he still avoids Utah like the plague, still loves David's _Changes_ the best, still sings in the shower... Still fucking loves riding cock.

When I met him, I realised that I hadn't actually explored sex as much as I thought I had. Fuck, he made me feel so insatiable all the time, even more so because I couldn't have him whenever I felt like it. But I wanted him. All day, all night. His lips and his ass and his gasps – And _he_ was insatiable. We never got to know each other for more than a few months, but I am sure it wouldn't have changed. Seven months down the road, we still would have been fucking as often because Brendon, well, he's a cockslut if there ever was one. I think he had a kink for virgins too. That summer, the guys I saw him with? A few of them definitely looked like they had no idea what was happening. They were just spellbound, because there was this guy, this gorgeous fucking guy that was with the band, all sexy smiles and flirtatious eyes and a damn amazing body, and no, no, they didn't swing that way, it was just this _one_ guy and a night of sinful pleasure. I'm sure he managed to fuck a few sexually confused guys. Managed to fuck me too. Fucked me and then fucked me over.

And now he's playing house with Shane. Who the hell's he kidding?

Not that he's a slut. I'll punch the lights out of anyone who says that. He just knew what he liked and went for it, and _Shane_ hardly looks like the guy to keep Brendon satisfied. They're _so_ happy, though, all sunshine and puppies and confetti and rainbows, and now Shane's sad little exhibition is a success on my account. Fuck them. I had sex twice with my girlfriend last night. I wonder what they got up to. If they fucked. If Brendon rode Shane's cock, or if Brendon was flat on his back, legs bent over his stomach to keep himself exposed, or maybe he was on his hands and knees, back arching, muffling moans into the pillow because they have to keep it quiet, just like we had to most of the summer, him biting on pillows, his hand, my tongue –

"Well," Keltie's voice comes, and I open my eyes, standing under the showerhead, trying to get water out of my eyes. The bathroom's misty, a distorted and unrecognisable reflection of me in the mirror. She's in the doorway; I didn't bother pulling the shower curtain closed. She's eyeing my crotch with a quirked eyebrow, and I look down. Oh. Well.

Keltie smirks and pulls her shirt off.

"Sing it like you mean it," I tell her, and she rolls her eyes and pushes her panties off before stepping into the shower. I feel victorious.

Morning sex. Picture perfect couple. We _are_ happy.

She hisses when I press her against the tiles that must be cold. I lean down, kiss her breasts, suck on her nipples, one hand between her legs where she's warm and soft and inviting.

She's the one to turn around – I don't, don't even hint it, don't suggest it – spreading her legs, bracing herself against the tiles, offering herself. And fuck, I go frantic from the invitation, kissing her shoulders, her neck, touching her all over, my cock greedily pressing against her ass. My fingers slip between her cheeks, and she's still stretched from last night. She sucks in a sharp breath, and she might be sore. I went too hard on her. She wants this, though, and I line myself up with her hole, pushing inside and going deep without further ado. She groans, high-pitched, caught by surprise. I hold her hips pressed to me, trying to catch my breath before realising fuck, who needs air, and start fucking her ass, urgent, vibrant, getting off with my partner, girlfriend, lover, whatever you want to call her. It feels like I haven't fucked in weeks.

We ran out of condoms after the first time last night, and we were both still horny so it made sense to resort to this. This morning, clearly the same excuse. But I don't need excuses with her. She's _into_ this, was into this before she even met me. She's the one who asked for it. And what wouldn't I do to please her?

I fuck her hard, closing my eyes, focusing on the way she feels. She's fingering her clit, moaning. I don't pay attention much, just fuck her, god, tight, hot, and I love it like this, dirty and no excuses, knowing the stakes.

"God, I –" she says, stopping to catch her breath. I suck on her earlobe, other hand cupping her left breast. She's fucking tight, and it's so good, so satisfying. I fuck her harder, and she gasps, "Love how- how wild you get from this."

I groan in response, admitting it. She's got an amazing ass, firm, pale cheeks, but I wish it was rounder, fuller. God, it'd suit her, a bigger ass, something to properly grab onto mid-fuck, pull, knead, and a wider waist, bigger all over, fuck, but still small and narrow, brown hair, broad shoulders, and that full ass, and god, if just –

"Ryan," she groans, and I screw my eyes shut as I come inside her. She makes a sound of protest because, yeah, she doesn't like it when I do that. I let myself ride it out for a second longer before I pull out, finishing off on the backs of her thighs. The water's running, taking my spilled seed with it. I press a groan into her skin.

She's still tense, her ass a beautiful red from my hips having slammed against it, and she turns around, flushed, on edge, pupils blown, and I kiss her sloppily, say, "I'll eat you out, fuck, I'll," and then I drop on my knees clumsily, hands on her hips and proceed to do just that.

Sex isn't a novelty when you can have it on a regular basis. It's just something we do, something I try not to do with anyone else. Twice last night, now in the morning... That hardly makes us sex crazed. I've only felt like that once in my life. One summer. With him. It's a stupid feeling, the want, dark and dirty, impatience even when he's there, even when he's beneath me, responding to every light touch.

But I'm happy. We're happy. We're happy, we're happy, I'm content, I don't need to see him ever again, I can forget, I know the score, and 'We're really happy together', he said, 'I found the right guy', he said. Good. Fuck off to Brooklyn, then, with your shitty art and your handsome boyfriend and your musical talent and decent job and valuable contacts. Fuck off, fuck off, and don't come into my SoHo cafés or Village bars. I eat my girlfriend's pussy in the mornings before calling the label big shots that bend to my will, and after that, I have lunch with Cat fucking Stevens and Pete fucking Townshend, so screw him. Let him sink into oblivion because he's too small on my map.

No one in this world says no to me, no one except him.

By the time Keltie comes, I'm hard again. The water's turned cold, but my skin feels electrified. Can't stop fucking thinking about him.

I stand back up and kiss Keltie, my erection pressing into her stomach. Her breathing hitches – she didn't realise I was hard again.

"What's gotten into you?" she asks, voice full of wonder, awe almost.

Nothing. No one. I just need to fuck her to get Brendon out of my system. That's all.

"I know how important artistic integrity is to you," Vicky says, nodding with serious eyes. "Really, you take two years on that album if you need to." She's got her long, brown hair loose, perfectly shiny. The restaurant is expensive, but Vicky said on the phone that business is business and ill suited for cafés or bars. She's still dressed like a rocker, though, black jeans, a leather jacket and a plain white t-shirt under it, but no one should think she's strolled in from a smoky bar – she's the best and most efficient manager I've ever had. Pete could hardly do his fucking job compared to Vicky. Glad I changed management, changed labels. Glad the car crash made me immortal.

"There's a but," I tell Vicky, trying to focus on this. It's hard to.

She nods, pursing her lips together. "But when was the last time you released new material?"

"_Boneless_."

"Exactly. It's been two and a half years, Ryan. And I know, I know, _Boneless_ has stayed in the charts since its release, and we both know how talented you are! You're not hard to sell. It's just that," she pauses and sighs. "Where are you? You gave one interview last summer, and I had to twist your arm for that. You're not touring. You're not recording. People are forgetting to expect new things from you. We need them to _expect_."

I frown solemnly. This part of advertisement, trying to sell yourself, I detest. "We're recording late January or early February. The album will be out by May. Then we'll tour, like we agreed. I'm doing things." My tone is defensive for no reason.

She looks around thoughtfully, and I turn back to the food she ordered, fried fish lying on a salad bed. She said something about fatty acids and how I don't eat like I should. When I signed the contract with her, she said I no longer had to worry about anything: bills, money, food, sleep, PR. She's got me covered down to vitamins.

She's holding a silver cigarette holder to her lips, brows furrowing. "We need a bang."

"A bang?"

She nods. "So that when you do release the album, the world stops. Something new. Something innovative. Something that will bring you into the consciousness of every single person in this country, from an ugly toddler to a brainless housewife." She blows out cigarette smoke, eyes nailed to the distance. Two young women sitting next to our table are looking at us, having recognised me.

I shift uncomfortably. "Isn't it your job to figure out how we do that?"

She snaps out of her daze and gives me a bright smile. "Of course! I'm just thinking aloud here, never mind me. You just write your music, I'll take care of everything else. All I'm saying is that if you've got any ideas, then run them by me. That's what I'm here for. I can make anything happen for you."

"I know."

Sincere gratitude is obvious in my tone. It's her job, but god, I'm fucking happy she's here, taking care of everything for me. She's swamped making calls and negotiations on my behalf every day, talking to the team that revolves around me even when I don't do anything: a lawyer, an accountant, song royalties, ongoing post-mortem Followers management. I don't need to worry about any of it. I can stick to my friends, the bars, the rehearsal space, the band, have a good time. Being a successful musician is a lot of paper work.

The women next to our table now stand up and take steps towards us, but Vicky notices them instantly, her eyes thinning. "Excuse me. My client is not signing autographs or giving statements at this time."

I take a sip of my wine, not even bothering to look at the women. Vicky shoos them away with the authority I've invested upon her. Then she turns back to me like nothing's happened. "You want to shake off The Followers ghost, that's all. Like Joe did."

She means nothing by it, but I lose my appetite and let the half-eaten fish filet lie forgotten.

Joe's everywhere. The fucker. Trust him to call me a fag and then put make-up on and start a glam rock band. I've seen him on the LP covers – blood red one piece suit, sparkling, too tight and leaving very little to the imagination. I know he's got a big cock – I've seen it – but he wants the entire world to acknowledge it too.

It doesn't make up for his musical mediocrity, but people lap it up, anyway. The former guitarist of The Followers. Now that's something. That's important. Good for Joe. Good for him. He's finally the star he wanted to be. Asshole.

"Did you sort things out with Patrick yet?" I ask to distract myself, using her lighter to light my own cigarette.

"Oh, yes. I did. He's wet behind the ears, isn't he?"

"Don't tell me you screwed him over."

"Wish I could've," she sighs. "Gabe came with him, went through the contract for Patrick and explained everything. Made me change clauses. God, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I couldn't fuck that newbie over at all." She sucks the end of the cigarette holder, looking genuinely upset. "I blame that Gabe of yours."

Gabe and Vicky don't exactly get along, probably because Gabe is always trying to get Vicky into bed with him. He's managed, actually, but Vicky's told me that she was drunk and that I am never, ever to bring it up. Gabe persists in his efforts, however, pissing her off frequently. First and foremost, Vicky's a professional. You don't mess with her. All Gabe wants to do is mess with her.

She says, "Patrick's signed the contract. It's all good. Don't you worry about it." I see her hesitating before she says, "You know I could have gotten you anyone. Could've gotten you Ian Paice."

"He's a rock drummer. I've had enough of rockers."

She shrugs like if that's how I want it, there's nothing she can do. I keep smoking, and we finish the bottle of wine standing on the table.

"Oh, there's something I need," I then say, digging into my pockets and handing her a crumpled up flyer. She takes it, lifting a perfectly trimmed eyebrow in interest. "There's a frame in that exhibition I want. The only one with a guy in it."

"Done." She folds the flyer and stuffs it in her bra. She doesn't ask why. She never does.

Before our lunch meeting is over, she goes through her bag and gets out five different contracts for me to sign. I do without reading any of them.

"Are you busy tonight?" Gabe asks me, looking earnest.

Over his shoulder, Jon looks appalled because we got to the practice space half an hour ago and Gabe's already talking about what comes after. Gabe's a fantastic musician and he loves what he does, but he also has the attention span of a five-year-old.

I shrug. I make my plans as I go. When I wake up in the early afternoon, I have no idea what I'll do before it's morning again.

"We should really figure out _Rampant_ first," Jon argues. I keep tuning the guitar, perched firmly on one of the stools. Patrick's behind the drum kit, twirling drumsticks and adjusting his cardigan. Gabe's got his bass hanging around him, and he looks hungover but he also manages to make it appear charming somehow. We form a circle in the practice room, an empty space between us, room for ideas to flow back and forth.

It's a nice practice room, and I would expect nothing less, considering that Vicky found it for us. There are plenty of lights in the ceiling, always giving the impression that it must be day even if it's night, and the walls are thick and sound-proofed, covered with an Indian rug-like wallpaper, psychedelic patterns curving and circling in dark colours. The place had cement flooring at first, but I said that it wouldn't do, and now we've got light maple flooring. We've still thrown rugs of various types on it to make the room more homely, and the space is hopelessly cluttered but we always manage to find what we're looking for.

"We should really discuss what we do tonight," Gabe argues.

"It'll be fun," Patrick says, smiling at me. "I mean, it's just going to be me and a few of my friends, no one famous or anything, but you should come. If you want to."

"You're coming too, you know," Gabe now informs Jon, and when Jon looks confused, Gabe says, "Last night. At the bar. We _talked_ about this, and by 'we' I mean Cassie and I." Gabe grins at me. "Ice skating."

I now join Jon in staring. "Ice skating?" I repeat. "As in... the thing where you put on skates and go on ice?"

"Precisely! Cassie thought it was a great idea! Patrick's going and then Cassie said something about Chicago and how she misses it, and Cassie's having lunch with Keltie today and said that she'd invite Kelts so I assume she's coming too, and we can _all_ go." Gabe grins like a maniac, staring at me expectantly. He has to be high. No one in their right mind would think that is a good idea. It's cold out there, it's early December, and it's _ice_, and I was brought up in Las Vegas. No ice. I have not ice skated in my life and don't plan to. I've already broken bones.

"Does the guy who runs the rink sell drugs?" I ask, trying to figure out what's really going on, and Gabe rolls his eyes.

"Think how fucking badass our bookworm here will be when he shows up with Ryan Ross. Come on, help Paddy get some cool points so that he can finally get some Class A pussy." Gabe nods like this is what he's after, and Patrick has turned bright red behind the drum kit.

"Cassie said she wanted to go?" Jon asks, attaching a strap to his guitar, looking thoughtful. "Okay, sure. We'll go."

I stare at The Whiskeys, as they are now officially called. I signed a paper on that too. They seriously plan to go ice skating. Not a strip club or a rock show or a drug lair, not at all. They want to run ahead and join picket fence America, get into the Christmas spirit. I need a new band.

"It'll cheer you up, man," Gabe says, clearly seeing the 'hell no' on my face.

"It might," Jon agrees. "You've been really moody lately."

I turn to my guitar quickly. "I'll come along and watch you stupid fuckers fall on your asses. I'm not skating. I've got dignity."

"Sure you do," Gabe grins, and it's only then he starts asking what we've planned for _Rampant_.

The new music is different from The Followers, which made band music. It was loud and overpowering, all parts and aspects demanding attention. This is different, even the name suggests it: Ryan Ross and The Whiskeys. I'm at the forefront, me, my voice, my lyrics, my guitar, and they back me up. Jon and I do all the song-writing, and I do all the lyrics. I could have hired session musicians and dictated the entire show, but I'm not comfortable standing alone in the spotlight, even if it is my music. Creating an actual band around me, a band that sticks to the recording and touring, helps me relax. Something old, something new. Half of the songs are acoustic, too. Acoustic music is dead. My fans will kill me. Let them.

Normally, we stay at the practice space late into the night, writing songs that we discard and never use. I want to find the perfect ones. This time, though, we finish up early because Gabe promised Cassie that we'd meet her at seven.

It's started snowing during the time we spent in the basement, and we come out to a chaotic Bleecker Street. I button up my winter coat the best I can to protect from the cold. I'm not used to this climate. London got wet and miserable during winter with the occasional sleet, but New York's cold goes straight into my bones. Gabe hails us a cab.

"We're going out drinking afterwards, right?" I ask when we're crammed in the backseat, Patrick having taken the passenger seat. The wipers of the car keep making a wheezing sound against the window.

"'Course," Gabe promises. Patrick adjusts his glasses and Jon tries to get snow out of his hair.

When we get to the rink, I realise it's bigger than I expected. Dozens of skaters are gliding on the ice, kids screaming, people inching forwards with arms outstretched to balance themselves. It's getting dark now, but they've got lights around the edges, illuminating the ice and the skaters. The trees of Central Park are dead and bare, rising high into the air, and behind them, skyscrapers take over the skyline. We can't find the girls at first, but then Jon spots them already on the ice. Patrick and Gabe stay behind to buy tickets while Jon and I walk to the barrier that surrounds the rink. Jon waves the girls over.

Cassie and Keltie both skate over to us, eloquently and gracefully with huge smiles on their faces. Their cheeks are rosy from the cold and exertion. "You look good out there," Jon says, leaning over the barrier to briefly kiss Cassie.

"You coming too, right?" Cassie asks, and Jon nods while I shake my head.

Keltie pouts at me. "You're not skating?"

"No."

She sighs but doesn't push it. She knows when I mean no. "I'll stand here and watch," I then amend. Happy couple, happy couple...

The girls take hold of each other's hands as they take off, and Jon seems a bit nervous but still excited. He said earlier that he hasn't ice skated since he was a boy.

"Come on," Gabe calls from behind us. "Patrick's friends are here." Jon takes one estimating look at the ice before he heads over, and I grudgingly tread behind. Gabe waits for me, and then he leans close, voice lowering so that Jon doesn't hear as he adds a mischievous, "Don't say I never did anything for you."

I blink at him, confused, eyes focusing on the backs of three guys Patrick is now talking to. I follow Jon, hands deep in my pockets.

The guy with crazy, curly brown hair – like an afro, almost, exploding around his head – notices me first. He looks young, twenty-two at most, relatively short and tiny. He pales and stares at me, not saying anything. The other two guys follow afro boy's stare and –

"Jon and Ryan, meet Ian, Brendon and Shane," Patrick says, motioning between us and them. "Guys, this is Jon Walker, he plays guitar, and then this is, well. This is Ryan."

Gabe is by my side now, grinning broadly. The fucker planned this. The _fucker_.

Jon looks taken aback before he says, "Brendon! Hey!" They didn't meet at Eric's party. Jon and Brendon actually haven't met in years, but Jon doesn't need a second in remembering Brendon. He makes an impression. Shane's beaming at me, and Brendon is looking from Ian to Patrick to us like this has got to be some fucked up joke. "We met back in '74," Jon says, though I know Brendon remembers. "You were touring with The Followers! Ry, it's your old roadie!" Jon nudges my side as if I might be unaware of this.

Brendon gives Jon and me a strained smile. "Hi." Then he looks down at his shoes. The afro guy, Ian, is still staring at me. Maybe he's mute.

"We meet again!" Shane now enthuses. "God, what a coincidence!"

"Yes. That's _exactly_ what it is," Gabe says with unconvincing nods. "Well," he then laughs, "let's go put some skates on!"

I take the opportunity to say, "Gabe, a word?" I promptly lead us away from the guys as they now head over to the skate booth. Gabe is giving me an all-knowing smirk, like he's just done something extremely remarkable. I look at him, trying to understand this. Then I say, "What the fuck?"

He instantly launches into it. "Patrick knows Brendon! Mic nights! ¿Recuerdas? And I was talking to Patrick last night, and he said he was coming skating with his friend Ian, who plays in a band with Brendon, and it's not a common name, is it? So I asked a few questions and realised it was _your_Brendon! And now he's here! He's not gonna turn you down twice, is he? You can definitely get him into bed this time!" He acts like my sex life affects him personally or, more likely, he's just so intrigued by the situation that he is giving himself the right to interfere.

"Have you lost it? Keltie's here!"

"Eh, I'll distract her," he shrugs.

"Goddammit, Gabe!"

I didn't want to see Brendon anymore. Or I did. I wanted to, but at the same time I didn't. I don't know. I couldn't decide, but Gabe decided for me. I don't _need_ to witness any more of Brendon's blossoming love. He made it clear that he has no interest whatsoever, and he wasn't playing hard to get either. I can tell the difference between the two, and I wasn't as subtle as I wanted to be. He knew I was still interested, and that makes the rejection that much worse.

"Come on!" Gabe chuckles. "At the gallery, he tensed up the second he realised you were in the room! He could barely look away. He totally wants you, man."

"No, he fucking hates me," I correct angrily, and Gabe looks confused. "Look, things with us came to a pretty nasty end. Alright? And Shane over there is his boyfriend, so what? I stand here while they ogle at each other? Not my idea of a good time."

"The artist's a fag?"

I nod, and Gabe hums like he is reassessing the situation. He doesn't seem to see what the problem is. Then he says, "I can distract him too."

He flashes a smile at me, and I swear under my breath as he goes to join the rest of the party. I march to the barrier of the rink and get out a cigarette. I'll just pretend they're not even here.

The snow fall has almost stopped now, only a few occasional flakes falling down. In front of me, a little girl falls flat on her ass and starts crying. Her father skates over and picks her up. I turn the collar of my jacket upright and try to hide. I don't necessarily have to speak to Brendon at all.

I still see him as he and the others enter the rink. Jon's alright on skates, taking a few careful strides before he finds Cassie in the mix of people going clockwise. Patrick's also got the whole skating thing figured out, but Ian is trying hard to stand upright. Brendon's doing better, but he's clutching onto Shane, who's laughing.

I hope that the both of them fall down on their asses, break their hips, and get hospitalised for the rest of winter.

Ian crashes flat on his back. Keltie skates past him and does a pirouette. She's Canadian – she's got the whole ice skating thing in her blood. Ian bravely gets up, waves his arms helplessly, and then falls flat on his ass again. Whoosh once.

Whoosh twice. I accidentally drop the cigarette I'm holding. It hits the ice and rolls on its glittering surface, and I watch it ruefully before getting another one out. I have too many damn pockets, I know I –

"You're not joining us?" an overly friendly voice asks, and I cringe before looking up and seeing Shane. Brendon's with him, now letting go of Shane's arm and moving to take a hold of the barrier not-so-gracefully.

"I have self-respect," I tell Shane flatly. I no longer have any fucking reason to pretend to be nice to this guy, especially when I've probably made his stupid show a success. Brendon manages to stand still as he holds onto the barrier firmly. He's clearly not a very experienced skater, but he's doing better than Ian, who is now getting helped back up by Jon and Patrick for what must be the fourth time.

Idiot Artist says, "That's a shame!"

A flame emerges from my lighter as I light a second cigarette. "What is?" I ask. "That I am not a miserable cunt who enjoys public humiliation to further worsen childhood traumas? I've got nothing to apologise for."

Shane looks taken aback. Fuck him.

"Just a shame you're not skating with us."

"Sure. Hey, Kelts!" I call out, waving, and Keltie waves happily and skates over to us. She's out of breath, but her eyes are sparkling. She's clearly enjoying herself.

"This is so much fun!" she exclaims before looking at Brendon and Shane curiously, and I make the introductions, making sure to say 'my girlfriend' at least thrice. Shane shakes her hand. Brendon can't because he's clutching the barrier, but Brendon's looking at her. Good. She's easy on the eyes.

Then she focuses on Brendon and says, "We've met!"

I freeze, my elbows leaning on the barrier, my right hand still as the cigarette is fitted between my fore and middle fingers. Brendon looks confused – better than that blank expression he's been giving me so far – but I'm confused too. "Huh?" I ask Keltie.

"_Jackie_ tour! I've told you a million times, Ryan!"

"Right, yeah. Right."

No matter what she tells me, I don't actually remember her. I met hundreds of people that summer – if she toured with a support band of ours for five shows without ever actually _talking_ to me, then she cannot expect me to remember her. I remember her friend, though, who tried to set up a threesome with Brendon and me. I remember that girl, but not Keltie. Keltie was upset about that, but then I eventually said that, oh yeah, I vaguely remember now, yes, of course.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember you," Brendon says.

"I was one of the dancers on the Canadian dates?" she offers, looking hopeful. Brendon shakes his head slowly. She sighs in defeat, looking thoughtful. "Oh! This one time Pete told me to come find you! We walked back together, remember? In, uh, it was... Ottawa! You and Ryan were outside by the bus, I remember because even then I kept thinking how handsome Ryan was!" she laughs. "It was after the show. You really don't remember?"

Brendon looks at me briefly, eyes wide. He remembers. Not Keltie, but he remembers what actually matters.

"Sorry. No."

Keltie looks disappointed. Gabe skates over to us then, and he's surprisingly good at it, keeping his balance, even knowing how to brake. He is sticking to his distraction promise, although I'd rather he didn't, but he quickly convinces Shane and Keltie to come skating with him. "You'd slow us down, man," he tells Brendon, linking arms with Keltie and Shane and pulling them away.

I want to ignore Brendon's presence or perhaps just blow some smoke in his face. Instead, I say, "You're not very good at that."

He glares and lets go of the barrier, wavering a little as he stands on the skates. "At least I've got the balls to try it out." He takes tentative steps, moving right in front of me.

He's in a bad mood. Clearly the effect of my gorgeous girlfriend. She's real. Yup. Didn't make her up. And if he is worried I'll try and flirt with him some more, he can dream on. I'm over that.

Brendon tries to take off, but ice skating is clearly not one of his strong points because he loses balance, and I instinctively reach out to steady him, cigarette falling onto the ice a second time. That's how you can always tell where I've stood – just follow the stubs. When I die some day, my grave will be surrounded by them. My grave will become a stub mountain.

I grip Brendon's arms, and he grips mine, pulling on my jacket as he swears. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I've got this, I've –"

His feet slip, and he crashes against me, body pressing into my chest. My lower ribs get squashed against the barrier as he pulls me in, air leaving my lungs. He clings onto me for balance, and I fist the back of his jacket to keep him standing.

"Whoa – just –"

"I've _got_ this, don't –"

He almost falls down again, pressing further into me, but then steadies. His breath washes over my neck, his hair pressed against my nose, and I breathe him in without meaning to. We stay still in the awkwardly fitted embrace, and my fingers tighten their hold of his jacket. It's like he's too afraid to move. "Fuck," he swears eventually, placing a hand on my shoulder, pulling himself back. His breathing is shallow, cheeks rosy – from the cold? From whatever he's thinking right now as he looks at me, eyes flying over my features? He looks surprised. Taken aback. His eyes are wide and dark, lips red and parted. And I could lean in, right here, right in front of all these people. I wouldn't care.

Brendon's gaze suddenly fixes behind me. His hand instantly drops from my shoulder. "Ian. Gave up already?" He pulls back quickly, clutching the barrier again instead of me. His cheeks are redder than they were a second ago, and he is trying his best not to look at me. I keep my eyes on him, taking in every detail.

"Y-Yeah," a timid voice sounds from behind me, but I don't look at the crazy afro kid. "N-Not very good at skating."

"Neither am I," Brendon laughs forcedly, chuckling at his friend, but he's acting guilty, caught red-handed. He glances at me briefly before he braves the ice and skates away clumsily. Must be bad if blackening bruises are preferred to my embraces.

I finally turn to Ian, who looks nauseous, gazing at me like he's seen a ghost. He fidgets, pulling on the sleeves of his thick jacket. He stays where he is like he's too afraid to come closer. Keltie and Cassie skate by, waving at me. Brendon's reunited with Shane, who laughs brightly, sparkly teeth and sparkly eyes and sparkly, sparkly, and I turn around fully to lean against the barrier. My heart keeps beating fast, but I try to ignore it.

"Ian, right?" I ask, and he nods. I beckon him over with a single finger, and he takes steps towards me, rigid and unsure. "You're in a band with Brendon?"

"It's, uh. It's his music. I just help play it." He says nothing else, but he's staring at me like he expects me to say something amazing. A lot of fans do – they expect me to speak in lyrics non-stop, offer grains of infinite wisdom. I don't. When the silence drags on, Ian blurts out, "I went to your high school."

I quirk an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah! I mean, you were- you were gone by the time I started high school, but yeah! I was a freshman when the first Followers album came out. I wore out my copy so quickly." He chuckles to himself, sounding embarrassed to be telling me this. "And then, then when _Boneless_ came out and you were on TV and magazines and the radio, you became such a legend back home. Mr. Yarrow, the music teacher, told me he used to give you guitar lessons and –"

I snort. I vaguely remember the music teacher of my high school – vaguely, vaguely, I never cared about an education – and he certainly never even knew I played guitar. I taught myself. Mrs. Roscoe taught me the basics of music, and I picked it up from there.

Another guy trying to get a piece of the fame, flat out lying about knowing me.

"Anyway. You made me want to play guitar in the first place," Ian says sheepishly. He shivers from the cold but smiles, keeping eye contact. There's nothing I can really say to a comment like that. 'Thanks' or 'Well, how's that treated you'?

"Explains why you kept falling on your ass. Not much ice skating in Nevada."

"No," he laughs shyly, his cheeks turning pink. I turn back to look at the skaters, eyes flying over the masses until I see Brendon and Shane again. My stomach drops at the sight of him and then curls up angrily at the sight of them.

Ian mumbles something about getting a hot chocolate from the stall by the ice rink, and I go with him to his surprise. Rather that than watch super couple on ice or think of the way my skin flared up from having Brendon so close to me. It got to him too. It must have.

Ian doesn't have a stutter and neither is he retarded. He's just nervous, full on panicking that I'm sipping hot chocolate with him – mine flavoured with whiskey, I go nowhere without my flask – but now his silence has turned into a stream of consciousness rant. He is speaking ten miles a minute, about New York and music and shoes and apple varieties, and then he mentions Brendon, and when I express interest, he seems to settle on that topic, delighted to get a reaction out of me. "No, yeah, no," he says. "We met at a club. A, um, special club." An underground gay club. "We were both kind of bored –" Not on drugs, then. "– and he was with a friend who hooked up with my friend –" Everyone fucking everyone, but no, not Brendon who's madly in love, "– and then we started talking about music –" Ian must have declared his admiration of me within the first two minutes, at least, "– and we had so much in common, man." Previously mentioned admiration not included. "The music's good. Brendon's really talented."

"How often do you play?"

"When we can, you know. We were meant to play at an open mic night tomorrow, but Brendon's working so we had to cancel." He shrugs apologetically. "We're not, like, real musicians. Like you. Or anything." He seems terrified that I'll think he's comparing himself to me.

"Who's playing tomorrow, then?" I ask, and when Ian blinks, I add, "Brendon. Whose gig is he organising tomorrow?"

"Oh! Right. No, it isn't to do with his internship, he's just working at the restaurant. Though last month Brendon was the promoter's representative for this one band, you might've heard of them, I was really jealous, he –"

"Come again?" I say very slowly to make sure I'm hearing this right.

Ian's on the same page with me, happy to be telling me something I don't know. He looks delighted. "Bren's got an internship with the promotion company. Unpaid and stuff, three days a week. It was meant to be four days, but he had to cut down and take up more shifts at the restaurant because at least that pays. I mean, Shane switched from full-time to part-time to pursue his art more, and Brendon's kind of stressed about being the one supporting them both. But waiting tables isn't too bad, you know? And it's for Shane's career." Ian takes a long sip of his hot chocolate. "It's a sacrifice." Then, "Man, it's cold out here." Then, "Oh. Uh. I mean – They're together. Uh. Like. They're gay. Um."

"I know."

Ian's not one for small talk.

He's said enough, though.

No one turns down my sudden offer to buy everyone dinner. They've been skating in the cold, what could be better than having a nice, warm meal right now? Especially on me, too. And we don't head out to any of the cosy, crammed and cheap family run restaurants in The Village. I ask Keltie to name the most expensive restaurant close to us, and so we arrive to a busy restaurant with our entourage of nine people. We're instantly escorted to a private cabinet when the floor manager recognises me. We're all underdressed, our lifestyles imprinted on our faces – except for the girls, they always look good – but the royal treatment doesn't reflect the way we look at all. I ruffle my hair to get snowflakes out and help myself to sit at the end of the table. Brendon sits at the far end with Shane, though Shane initially tries to sit closer to me. Shane's already told me five times how generous I'm being to people that I barely know. I replied that I support the arts.

"Order whatever you want," I say dismissively.

I manage to pin the night on Patrick, proposing a toast out of nowhere, saying that he's signed the contract, he's a Whiskey now whether he likes it or not, and that I look forward to our professional relationship, and that we're here celebrating and how nice it is that some of Patrick's friends were able to come too. Truthfully, though, it seems Patrick is friends with Ian and only vaguely knows Brendon and Shane. Either way, Patrick is flustered.

We're not here for Patrick, however. Earlier today, I wanted to see Brendon fall on his ass before leaving him to his idyllic life with Shane.

Except that Brendon lied.

Oh sure, his life is so fucking amazing. He's so moved on. He's so living the American dream with his music contacts and hot photographer boyfriend.

What a fucking liar.

I don't try making eye contact or engaging Brendon in conversation. I talk to Gabe sitting next to me, my righthand man, and Keltie on my other side as my queen. And from this throne I'll judge the rest of the people in the cabinet as I sip on wine, smoke cigarettes, take the guests in slowly and calmly with hawk-like attention.

After everyone's eaten, we remain talking and drinking, and finally Brendon stands up and exits the cabinet – _finally_ – and I stub my cigarette against my plate next to the barely eaten risotto. "Excuse me," I say, and Gabe grins like he knows. He does, bits and pieces. Not everything. Not even close.

Brendon's taking a piss by one of the urinals when I enter the men's toilets. He's got his back to me, unaware of my presence. He's been drinking too much wine. I've been paying attention to that. It might work in my favour.

Brendon turns around after he's done, flinching, hands on the zipper of his jeans. I remain quiet. "Hi," he says, awkward and blunt, the word just hanging in the air. He heads for the sinks. He starts washing his hands, and I look at us in the mirror – me with my back leaning against the wall next to the door, him with his shoulders tensed up. He glances up, our eyes meeting in the mirror. "Did you want something?"

"You're a liar."

He looks too surprised for it to be an authentic reaction. "Don't know what you mean."

"It's a nasty habit. You should do something about it." He keeps up his confused expression as he shakes his hands to dry them. "It's a waste of your talent, you know. Waiting tables."

He stops a little then, ducking his head so that the reflection no longer lets me see his face. He turns around, looking defiant. "I didn't lie." When I scoff, he fiercely counters, "Okay, I might have embellished the truth a little, but I hardly lied."

"Do you really care what I think?"

"No."

"See, I told you it'd become a habit."

He shoots me a glare, crossing his arms over his chest. This time, I look down – I'm not trying to pick a fight. He just lied when he didn't have to, when he could have just said how it was. I had my share of shit jobs back in the day. I get it.

"Ian just said some things, and –"

"Fucking Ian," Brendon mumbles bitterly, but the kid shouldn't take the blame for telling me the truth.

"Look, you shouldn't be waiting tables. We both know that. And your so-called friends seem to lap it up, but I'm here to tell you they're full of shit. Shane's mediocre at best. And what about your art? What about that? You're sacrificing your talent to help someone who doesn't have half of it." He opens his mouth to retaliate, but I say, "No, you listen to me. When you were growing up and you pictured your life, were you in the leading role? Were you? Or was this your goal, being the sidekick in someone else's dream?" Brendon's jaw tightens, and he looks down. He knows I'm right. He_must_ know that whatever he's doing with his life right now is a waste of time. Sure, Shane might get somewhere, but Brendon shouldn't have to enslave himself to promote mediocrity.

"You wouldn't get it. You _don't_ get it. We're a team, Shane and I. We work together," he informs me. Yeah, because that works. He should ask Sonny and Cher. "Love is about sacrifice," he says.

"No. It's not." He looks lost momentarily, and my hands twitch by my sides, but I don't let myself go over to literally shake some sense into him. He's still got so much to learn. Instead, I sigh. "Do you need money?"

"What?"

"If you need money, all you got to do is ask."

I don't get the reaction I'm expecting. At all.

"What the _fuck_?" he ask quietly, every syllable oozing venom. "I don't- I don't want your money! _We_ don't need your money. God!"

He moves to get past me to the door, but I block him. "Why are you pissed off at me? I'm being _nice_."

"Like you were ever nice," he retorts, the words cutting deeper than they should. "What are you doing, Ryan? Dazzling us with your wealth and fame? I have no idea what kind of a game you're playing here, but I love Shane, and I don't –" He looks over my shoulder, still defiant. That's him. He'll go down fighting. "I'm not taking your money."

"God, you're still too proud for your own good."

"Yeah, maybe. Maybe I'm just a waiter at a shitty Italian restaurant, slaving away while you roll around in money with your semi-famous friends, but I've got more dignity than the rest of you combined. You know what you have in there?" he asks, motioning at the door. "A group of yes men and a few adoring fans, all looking at you like god: Patrick, Gabe, Keltie, Ian –"

"Shane."

His jaw sets tight. "Yeah. Shane too. So what's the deal? You need them to feel better about yourself? Extend charity, show just what an amazing guy you are? I think that's what it is. But don't act shocked if I'm not joining their ranks, if you can't bribe me. I'm not a beggar, and I need nothing from you."

It sounds rehearsed, like he's prepared this rant, probably over the course of the past few hours. What he thinks about my life.

He tries to get past me again, but I take a hold of his arm, stopping him by my side. I take in a deep breath and whisper, "Bren, come on." He's overreacting.

He looks down, refusing to look at me. It's not like I'm asking him to take a thousand bucks, but whatever might be helpful. Fifty bucks. A hundred. Five hundred. And so what they're all a bunch of yes men? Does he think I don't know that?

"Fuck off," he hisses, but it doesn't sound too sure. He walks out of the bathroom, door swinging. I forgot the temperament he had. Amazing in bed, a pain in the ass otherwise.

I take a leak before joining my party, and on my way in, I ask Shane to swap seats with Gabe. Shane's standing up before I can even finish the sentence, and Brendon looks alarmed but we both know he can't say anything about it.

Cassie is talking about Pilates again – she keeps saying that it will be huge someday, really, _someday_ all of America will be doing it. I think it's likelier that Americans magically stop masturbating. Keltie's intrigued, however – she always is – and the women are deep in conversation when Shane sits down next to me, a half-finished red wine glass in his hands. I pour it full and ask him to tell me about his work. He instantly does, like I've asked that one question he can spend forever talking about.

I'm not entirely sure of my agenda until I am. Patrick, Ian and Gabe are talking amongst themselves, Gabe befriending strangers the way that only he can, and Patrick asks a horrified, "How can you say that _Eat the Document_ was a masterpiece compared to _Dont Look Back_?" and Gabe replies with a deep intake of air, "Well –"

Brendon is talking to Jon, and both men look uneasy. Jon asks something; Brendon shrugs and bites on his lower lip. He's breathtaking. Shane talks about a short film he once made.

Vicky needs a bang. Something I haven't done yet. Something to reintroduce me to the public.

"Shane," I say, interrupting him. "I want you to film a documentary of me and the guys."

Shane's mouth remains hanging open, but the rest of the table keep talking as the universe keeps spinning and the puzzle pieces start coming together.

Brendon is nervously shredding a napkin into bits of fluff. He doesn't have to worry. I've got it from here.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Wolf's Teeth**

"Wow," Shane breathes out, fidgeting as the elevator doors close behind us. "Oh, wow," he adds, clutching the camera around his neck with white knuckles.

Jon grins lopsidedly, lifting a loose wrist, bringing the bottle of JD to his lips. Old No.7, Tennessee Whiskey. He passes it onto Gabe.

Gabe has never been in a successful band, unlike Jon and me, but he still doesn't get dazed in the face of stardom. Jon doesn't get recognised much and he was never overly famous, but he's used to the whirlwind and he's used to meeting big names. Shane isn't. We only bumped into Jerry in the lobby just now – I wonder what he's doing in New York – and The Whiskeys and I have moved on with our lives, whereas Shane can't seem to recover. He's pale, looking around with big, unnerved eyes.

"So it's. It's a party with," Shane says. Then he reverts to, "Fuck, that was Jerry Garcia." He's already said it five times. And then Shane looks at me like he wants to add 'Fuck, I'm hanging out with Ryan Ross. Fuck, fuck, fuck.'

Gabe says, "Relax, Shaney! Relax! Take a slug!"

"Go on," Jon beckons with a laidback air that's not often seen.

Jon's got a vision of this music. He knows where we're heading, what he wants from me, what he expects from me, and it's thanks to him that this attempt at making music hasn't proved to be a failure. Even he knows when to let go, however, when not to frown upon Gabe's endless antics and the shit that he puts me up to, usually unproductive for the cause of the album we're trying to do. Lou Reed's party is one of them.

"I shouldn't. I'm working," Shane says. He looks like he's been dragged out of his comfort zone. Brendon always acted like he owned the room he walked into – he was charming everyone from David Bowie to me. Shane has none of that charisma. What the hell brought these two together, I'll never know.

I say, "You're learning how you'll be working. Take a sip."

Shane eyes the bottle that Jon's offering, and in the face of peer pressure – or, rather, my use of the imperative – he takes the bottle and brings it to his lips.

It's a Saturday night. When Brendon gets back home to their apartment after an exhausting shift at the restaurant, his boyfriend will be out on the town with me. Shane will not be home, waiting. Instead, he'll be receiving a short introduction to rock 'n roll by the one guy Brendon probably doesn't want around him.

Brendon doesn't have to worry. I won't spill out his secrets, ask Shane if Brendon's come still tastes the same. My mouth's locked, and I threw away the key a long time ago, threw it behind me on Castro Street and didn't turn to look back.

Pretended I didn't look back.

We get to the right floor, and the elevator doors open. I readjust my coat.

"Ryan," Gabe says, and I nod silently and let him walk out first. It was never a conscious decision on my part or Gabe's, but it's still there: Gabe as an unofficial bodyguard. It's evolved as we've been attending parties and causing riots. He's not much of a bodyguard, really, since he's primarily my bandmate, present to drink and fuck and party, and sometimes, I don't see him for half the night, but he always keeps an eye out. Jon would be a lot better at keeping me safe if only he expressed the desire to follow me up and down Manhattan night after night, but he's been domesticated. Even if he's with us now, he has plans to be home at five AM latest, snuggling up to Cassie.

Point is that Gabe knows people. I trust his judge of character fully, and he sees a troublemaker a mile away. Provided he's not too stoned or drunk, he is able to get me out of awkward situations swiftly and efficiently. This includes him doing a pre-emptive sweep of clubs and bars and, this time, the party.

Shane looks confused by the system when Jon and Gabe enter the apartment that the noise is coming from, but I wander to the end of the hallway, getting out a cigarette and looking through the window, down twenty floors and onto a road littered with the roofs of yellow taxis.

"Are we not going in?" Shane asks me in confusion, camera hanging around his neck. I look at him carefully, taking in his worn out leather jacket. He's got brown hair hanging in front of his eyes. He's handsome but not stunning. He's smart but not intelligent. He's got depth but not insight.

I will be seeing a lot of Shane now. Doesn't mean I ever get to see Brendon, just his supposed better half. Maybe I can be masochistic.

"No rush," I say, and Shane lifts the camera and snaps a picture of me in the hallway, smoking slowly.

Behind him, Gabe pokes his head out. "Ry," he says simply, but it's enough. Last month, I almost walked into a party Joe was attending while visiting New York. We can't have that. No, we can't have that at all.

"Keep your head on there, kid, and follow me," I say, knowing full well that Shane is older than me. He only nods, though, of course he does. It's only a music elite party, and he's shitting himself. Glad Patrick didn't come because arriving with two newbies would be too much for me to put up with.

The apartment is swamped with the members of the New York scene, walls and floor barely visible because people have taken over every nook and crook, some holding beers, some wine bottles, some whisky bottles. The smell of sweat, grass and cigarettes is overwhelming, and I slip into the crowd and the world of dimmed lights like a criminal, shoulders slumped on hoping no one notices.

Of course everyone notices.

Gabe is giving us the grand tour, pointing left and right with, "And there's the powder room," and I nod without looking, but Shane murmurs "Shit" behind me, and I assume that he looked in and realised that it's a different type of powder that the people present are after.

These days everyone knows not to trust a guy who doesn't take anything. There really isn't anything dodgier than that.

"Oh," Gabe then says, stopping quickly and peering at Shane behind me. "That's one thing Vicky mentioned, right? When you do your documentary thing."

"Yeah," Shane says, sounding unnerved. "No footage of drug use."

Gabe grins. "Good luck with that."

We end up in a bedroom after having paid our respects to the host. Lou seemed surprised that I came. I'm not a regular. I'm more at home amongst the unknown, struggling artists than I am with these rockers, groupies and hangers on. Not a party animal. Not something to be put on display. I had to come tonight, though. Because of Shane. Because if he weren't here, he'd be at home, and I don't like the scenarios that I see when I close my eyes.

The bedroom has been adopted as an extension of the living room in lack of space, Jon and Shane sitting on the edge of the bed while I occupy the old, bulky armchair in the corner. Gabe leans against the wall next to me, acting like a surprisingly loyal watchdog. He'll be gone the second he spots a pretty skirt. Jon and Gabe talk, laughing and joking. Shane keeps looking around with big eyes. There's a steady flow of guests into the room now that we're here, the bedroom becoming even more packed than it was when we entered.

A girl is talking at me with big, shiny eyes when I beckon Shane over with a single finger. He obeys instantly, shoulders tense as he walks over. "Sit down," I tell him, and someone quickly offers him a chair. Shane pushes that stupid, incessantly flopping hair from his forehead as he sits close to me, leaning over to make sure he hears me in the noise of the party. I ignore the 'Hey, Ryan's from people I don't know and ask, "You okay, Shane?"

"Yeah. Sure. Of course." He nods excessively and then flashes a quick smile. "I used to live in the Castro District in San Francisco. I've seen parties."

Oh. So they met in the cesspool of depravity itself. Romantic.

"Fag parties aren't the same as rock parties," I correct him, hoping to insult him because he's in a position where he has to put up with it. But then he'd tell Brendon that I acted like an asshole, and then Brendon would –

Shane doesn't seem insulted, though, he just nods in an ain't that the truth kind of way. He then focuses his gaze to the doorway, lifts his camera and snaps a picture. Whatever was there is gone by the time I look over. "Wasting film," he mumbles sheepishly when he lowers the camera, like he acted out on impulse and now regrets it. "Expensive."

"Isn't that gonna be paid for?" I ask. Vicky looked slightly stressed, though pleased, when I told her of Shane doing a documentary of the band. The Beatles made fucking nonsensical movies – I can most certainly get people to pay to see me in the studio and on the road. It's that extra something that Vicky was looking for, ideal for those who constantly complain that I'm such an elusive figure, that I don't seem to be comfortable with my fame. Now they can see behind the scenes and pry on my life like they seem to dream of doing.

Shane was in a meeting with Vicky and her lawyers for practically an entire day. Again, Vicky noted that she could have gotten this or that guy to do this for me, someone already famous, someone with more experience, but I wanted Shane. At least he's not expecting to be paid as much as those other guys.

Shane was dazed according to Vicky, and Shane still is. He frowns and then laughs a confused, "Oh. Yeah. I guess that film rolls are paid for." He looks embarrassed and mumbles, "It's all a bit confusing. There's an accountant that I need to send receipts to and there's a budget that Vicky insists that I stick to, and it's just – But I mean. I can do it. I've done documentaries, those just... consisted of interviews and things. Easier to organise than this."

"That's why I asked you to come along tonight. So that when you do start working on the actual documentary, you're comfortable working in this environment," I explain and motion around the crowded, loud room.

"I only get one interview per crew member," Shane then says, sounding worried. "Would you want to do that before or after the tour? When _is_ the tour? When are you going to the studio? When's the album coming out?"

"Shane!" Gabe laughs from beside me. Although Gabe knows that Shane is fucking a guy I used to fuck and that I'm not entirely happy with that, Gabe seems to genuinely like Shane. In fact, Shane seems to get along with all the guys. Shane is a likeable guy. There's nothing wrong with him except for the list of two hundred and thirty-five items that I keep a log of in my head.

"What?" Shane asks, brows furrowing.

"You gotta relax! We go to the studio when we go to the studio! We tour when we tour! It'll happen!" Gabe wipes his nose with the back of his hand and shivers. I missed him snorting what's undoubtedly gone up his nostrils now. So much for the protection he might've been able to give me. "Man," Gabe says, looking around. "Tequila. This party needs tequila."

He heads out of the room, presumably to find just that.

"Vicky did tell you that I get to say what goes onto that documentary, right?" I ask, and Shane nods. He doesn't even look like he's got a problem with it. Shane will edit and re-edit that documentary until I give it my seal of approval. I don't care what's in it. I only know what I don't want to be in it. It's been a long time since I've toured, but if next spring I find myself hyperventilating in backstage toilets, Shane cannot film that for the world to see. We're not recording history – we're compiling a product to sell. At least Pete taught me that much.

"I've got ideas," Shane then says. "I'd love to brainstorm with you sometime, to see what you've got in mind. I'd, uh – Yeah, I'd love that, Ryan. If that's okay with you. If you've got time. I know you're busy, of course I know that. I'm busy too, but I can change my timetable around it."

"You haven't quit at Eric's, have you? Eric would be damn pissed off at me for that."

"No, no," Shane says quickly. "Juggling the record store job with my photography, a few commissions and now this. Hardly have time to sleep."

I lean back in my chair, taking in a deep breath. "Brendon's okay with that?"

"Oh yeah. He's great like that. He's doing a mic night this week, and I was gonna go see him and, you know, show support, but now I've got a meeting at the gallery and I had to cancel, and –" He stops to catch his breath, face flashing with something like the pain evoked by an unpleasant memory. Like a fight or an argument. But then he smiles and that adoration is there. "Brendon gets it, though. He really does. Don't know where I'd be without him." He looks around the room, at the exhibition or movie that we're watching, something surreal and intangible. He chuckles and turns to me. "Guess this was the average night on your Followers tour, right?"

I let my eyes wash over the people indifferently, the latest fashion that's covering their limbs, the latest bands that are leaving their lips, the latest drugs that are circling in their veins. "Sometimes," I admit. "Just with a bit more sweat." I think back to one of the early parties on that tour, Brendon doing coke, Brendon hooking up with that anonymous guy, Brendon pressed to the wall and making out with him... There was something so untamed about him. Wild. Uncontrollable. Now he's chained down by the guy sitting next to me. Yeah, I'd take Shane back home to meet my family if I had one, if fag relationships counted as real ones. Shane's the kind of guy that parents would love. If Brendon's parents hadn't disowned their son, I could see Shane right there, in the haven of Mormonism, saying, 'I'd love a second helping of mashed potatoes, Mrs. Urie! Thank you!'

Shane would fit in there better than Brendon ever could. I know that. Deep down Brendon knows that. Shane doesn't.

"The Followers parties were crazier than this," I say. "Brendon loved those parties."

"I can't picture that," Shane laughs, sounding amused. "He's not much of a party person."

"Was when I knew him." Although my tone is slightly challenging, Shane doesn't contradict me or say that, well, he probably knows Brendon better than I do. Maybe. But I know who he was. "So when did you two meet?" I ask, going against my instincts, like I desperately want him to add insult to injury.

Shane looks thoughtful, his mouth moving with no sound coming out, like he's adding it up in his head. "We got together early '75, but I met him a few months before that, so... we must have met two or so years ago. He was working in a Castro bar." Shane smiles this little smile only lovers can smile, like his mind is suddenly filled with memories only he and Brendon share. Memories expanding over two years. That's a lot of memories. That's a lot of time spent in each other's exclusive company. That's a lot of mornings waking up together.

"You met a few months after we finished the tour, then," I say. I must have been... I must have been throwing Jac's clothes out of the window and packing for London myself. I was fine. I was on top of the world. I wasn't running away from anything. I was running towards.

"Yeah, must have been," Shane agrees. "God, when he told me he'd been on that tour with you guys, my first thought was that he must have been on that bus when it crashed." Genuine concern is heavy in his tone, and it suddenly sinks into me like wolf's teeth. He loves Brendon. Probably. Most likely. Two years. You don't stick around someone for that long if you don't love them. And Brendon said it too, straight to my face, that he loves Shane, but it's the way you love your pet dog. Not the way you Love someone. Who needs love, anyway? It just complicates otherwise perfectly functioning relationships. Look at Jac and me. We were fine without it.

"He wasn't on tour with us anymore at that point," I say roughly. He chose to stay behind in San Francisco. He quit. For nothing. A stupid fight. A misunderstanding.

Shane smiles. "Lucky, right?"

"It was lucky."

Shane doesn't even know how heavily edited the version he's gotten is.

I stub my cigarette into the ashtray someone holds out for me and regret having asked Shane to come along with us at all.

"You broke your arm, right?" Shane now asks. I startle and glance at him briefly before I nod and wrap my arms around my middle. "Which arm?" he asks, sounding curious, examining me. My heart is suddenly beating fast, feeling irregular somehow. I drop my gaze. Shane doesn't back off at all. "What's Spencer up to these days? He's such an amazing drummer."

I clear my throat. "Don't know."

"You don't know? But surely you –"

"Shane," Jon says, in this serious tone that seems to convey whatever Jon intended it to. In my peripheral vision, Shane looks down to his lap. Jon is still sitting on the bed across from us. He has spent his time talking to people, being the most appealing member of The Whiskeys to the general public. Gabe's too crazy while Patrick is too awkward. Jon's solid. Jon clearly picked up on the conversation we were having and has now silenced Shane. I could signal Shane to leave with a flick of my wrist, have someone else take his place, engage them in conversation instead, but I don't.

"The documentary," I say after a considerable silence, and Shane flinches, looking up quickly. "It's about this band. These guys."

"Yeah. Of course. You got it." Breathless. Reassuring. When I say nothing more, he stands up, clutching his camera like a shield of armour. "I'll go snap some more shots. Get a feel for it all, like you told me to. If that's alright."

"Go for it," I say, and he flashes a nervous smile at me before he snakes out of the room. Escaping. Running for it. He better not tell Brendon.

Shane's seat is instantly occupied. There seems to be an unofficial queue to come sit next to me, exchange a few words. "Ryan, man, I've always wanted to ask if _Six in the Morning_ is about Nam, because it is, right? It's about war, man, it's –"

I beckon Jon over, and he gets up, leaning close to hear me, and I raise my voice above the background noise. "Shane can stay, but I don't want to see him again tonight."

Gabe might be a good bodyguard, accomplice and all of it, but when he's fucked and out of it, Jon isn't bad at the job either. It's just that Jon would rather not take on the responsibility whereas Gabe feels like it validates him somehow.

Jon looks after Shane briefly. "Sure." He gives my shoulder a brief squeeze and follows the filmmaker out of the room.

I lean into the chair, not sure what it's all for. Show Shane what he's missing, show him what Brendon was once a part of. Throw Shane off his game. Hope he gets fucked up and cheats on his partner with disastrous consequences.

Brendon must have been furious about the documentary. I wouldn't know and Shane hasn't said anything about it, but Brendon must be pissed off. That Shane now works for me. That the money that buys their bread will be coming from me.

Shane knows a good deal when he sees it, but it's not enough to have wooed half of the duo. Winning Shane over won't be enough to... God, Brendon's such a stubborn asshole.

Someone asks me if I've ever considered writing a book.

Keltie's busy performing at the birthday party of some rich kid whose daddy is a millionaire and who promised The Rockettes for him. I think the kid is turning seventeen. Good wank off material right there: a row of scantily-clad women dancing for him. Keltie said she'd go back to her place from there and meet me in the morning. Bring croissants.

She's far away from this basement bar on 4th Street. Anyone I've ever known is far away from this bar, and though I've prowled these streets far and wide, I've never been here. The place has got poor lighting, the capacity of a hundred and fifty max but it's still half empty, while concrete pillars hold the ceiling up. The air is heavy with smoke, and music is coming from the stage in steady waves. I inhale sharply. I'm late.

I pull the brim of my hat over my eyes, self-conscious as I go up to the bar where the idle bartender looks at me expectantly. My fingers dance over the sticky counter. "A whiskey."

The bartender looks over his shoulder at the shelves of bottles with affluent disinterest. "Will Johnnie Walker do?"

"Always," I say with a small smile. We started a new song yesterday. One of the best ones yet. I'm always up for spending time with Mr. Walker. "No ice."

I get ice, anyway.

I find a round corner table with a scratched surface and a moist beer mat. I'm too far back to be seen in this light – I haven't spent the majority of my adult life on stages to not know that. A group of a few dozen people are formed into a mass before the stage, looking up at the two performers. The spectators are looking at the band, at each other, at their drinks, shifting restlessly like they're not sure what their purpose is. I don't hear much except for the last few chords of the song. Unsure cheering sounds, some stray claps. Someone yells a drunken "YEAH!"

Brendon steps closer to his microphone, a soft smile on his lips. "Yeah right back at you."

I stare. He's full of charisma. He's practically radiating it.

The crazy kid – Ian – lifts a hand as if to say thank you and clutches onto his guitar nervously. There probably have been a few performances already. It's past eleven, so it's not an all bad timeslot that they've been given. Still, it's a Tuesday night and the place is hardly the centre of rock 'n roll, and there will definitely be a few more guys after Brendon's set.

I've seen Brendon on stage too many times to count: skin glistening with sweat, pupils dilated from the buzz, cheeks rosy, lips parted in some indistinguishable shout. The crowd was always louder than anything else. I've seen him play around with Brent's basses and keyboards, Joe's guitars, my guitars, Spencer's drums. I've heard him jokingly singing _Crocodile Rock_ during soundcheck, but that's all mockery, a dress rehearsal compared to this. His own music. His own words. I know how big of a deal that is, but Brendon isn't nervous. It's a shitty bar, a shitty crowd, but he smiles easily like he's just won the lottery. If he's nervous, not a trace of it is visible on his features. He's having a great time up there.

"You good?" Brendon asks Ian, who is now switching the guitar to a bass, and Brendon takes the guitar from him, putting down the twelve-string he was using when I walked in. Ian nods, brown hair falling out of place. "Alright," Brendon says, the microphone catching his voice and carrying it across the room. He eyes the guitar neck as he places his fingers on the strings. He's dressed in tight, blue jeans with a big buckled belt, a red and white chequered dress-shirt that's three buttons undone, a white undershirt visible. He looks comfortable on stage, comfortable as he says "a one, a two – a one, two, three, four" and kicks into the new song.

The music is stripped down – has to be with just guitar and bass – but it's still recognisable somehow. It's not noise. Melodies are clear, and Brendon's vocals are smooth at parts, then rough out of nowhere. He has a fantastic vocal range and knows it and is using it. Good. You should always play to your strengths.

Girls in the crowd sway to the music, someone has gotten out a lighter as a joke. I'm not laughing. Brendon closes his eyes as he launches into the chorus. The lyrics are dreamlike, full of strange visions that I cannot decrypt. It could be about love or life or death or his morning cereal. Whatever it is, Brendon sings it with conviction, in a voice that compels me to listen. It's good music. I don't have to flatter him. I don't have to like the music. If it were bad, I'd tell him the truth, and then I'd tell him how to make it better.

A few times during the performance, looking at him gets too much, and then I drop my gaze and stare into my emptying glass. Had a few drinks at home before leaving. Some courage. The phone kept ringing as I got ready. Not sure who it was. Gabe, Jon, Eric, Patrick, Greta, Vicky. Could have been anyone. It's easy slipping into the night, saying you were in one place when you were at another. The city's too big for anyone to really know, and no one is going to check up on your facts. No one could give you the truth, anyway. Maybe someone saw me. They don't really remember.

When Brendon says that it's their last song, I look up again and practically don't blink for the three minutes that the song lasts. It's a more upbeat song, and the refrain gets stuck in my head, echoing from my left ear to my right even after they leave the stage, waving at the half-empty room, Ian mumbling, "Thanks so much!" to Brendon's microphone.

It's not much of a show, but the room still relaxes after they're gone. Like they can now focus on something other than Brendon, who had the room eating out of the palm of his hand the few times that the crowd stopped to properly pay attention.

I get up and head back to the bar with my empty glass. "Fill her up," I instruct. "No ice." I get ice again.

When I turn around to face the room, Brendon and Ian have come out, both with two gig bags for their instruments. They leave them by a table and start chatting to the people that have surrounded them. The next performer, a girl in her twenties, is getting ready onstage. Brendon laughs at something that an older guy is saying to him, nodding quickly, brushing brown hair to the side. His lips are stretched wide into a smile. I bring the glass to my lips calmly. Not so calmly.

I head over when Brendon separates himself from the masses, getting a capo out of his back pocket and sliding it into one of the pockets of the gig bag. "That was pretty good," I say to his back.

Brendon instantly turns to the sound of my voice as if to thank me for my opinion, but then he sees me. He pales, maybe, I can't really tell from the lights, but everything about him certainly looks colourless. His eyebrows lift in surprise, but then confusion pulls them down, and then he settles on an almost neutral expression. It's stony, what it is. So I offended him. So I hired his boyfriend to work for me. But I'm here now.

"I mean," I continue, "you have to work harder than that to get panties thrown on stage, but it's a start."

He stays silent for unnervingly long, but then seems to kick into motion. "Yeah. Probably." His smile isn't a smile, but his lips purse together icily. "Let me guess. You walked by perchance and just had the random urge to come in for a drink and lo and behold –"

"Shane told me," I say, cutting him off, and then I look around the room as if to see his worse half. I know he's not present. Brendon most likely knows that I know. "Guess your boyfriend's too busy to come see you," I conclude. There's only a hint of mockery in my tone, but come on. Shane's playing Picasso left and right, too busy to come see this? "I happened to have time," I then explain. "Nothing good on TV or the radio."

He narrows his eyes at me, and I can't seem to have the balls to look him in the eye. He shifts restlessly. "And where's the rest of the Ross party?" Now it's his turn to sound mocking. He looks around like expecting to see The Whiskeys or someone else, but when he doesn't see them, his eyes land on me again.

"It's just me," I say. The tight set of his jaw loosens a little, and he looks confused, like he's lost ground or the one angry thought he was clinging onto. "I'm sorry about last week, by the way," I say, forcing the words out. "Gabe's always asking for money. I meant nothing by it."

"You meant something by it."

"Yeah, well." I scratch my neck, feeling uncomfortable. "You didn't want my help, and when anything that's something becomes nothing, then that's all it is."

Ian now appears by Brendon's side. "Ryan!" He's grinning wide, eyes flying over my features too damn fast. He's covered in slight sweat, hardly from the stage, though, and – Oh. Well, he's on something. Wasn't five minutes ago, I'm relatively sure, and Brendon appears to be observing the same thing, that his friend has popped something since they got off stage. "You saw us play?" Ian asks, blinking too much, pushing frizzy curls out of the way. I only nod, and he grins twice as much. "Fuck! Fuck, that's far out!" He breathes out. "Did you dig it?" I do a modest nod after having given it some thought, and again he seems delighted. "You did! Fuck, man. Fuck."

"There's potential."

"Potential! Fuck! Potential, Bren!" he enthuses. "So glad I didn't see you in the crowd, I would've shat myself otherwise!" He laughs hysterically. Brendon shoots him a glare that he misses completely. I don't really have a comeback for that either. Ian keeps gazing at me, reminding me of Greta when she's lost in her own world. "You look really good tonight," he then announces, letting his eyes fly over my brown corduroy suit and then back to my face. "Really sexy." His cheeks flush red. "I don't know why I said that," he mumbles nervously. He bites on his bottom lip shyly.

"Let me buy you a drink," I offer, and Ian looks flustered through his drugged haze.

"Rum and coke?"

"You got it," I nod, then look at Brendon. "Anything for you?"

Brendon looks like he has no idea what to do, eyes flying between Ian and me, and then his shoulders slump slightly. "Just some water," he says. It sounds like defeat.

Brendon goes to give their instruments to a friend of theirs as Ian and I go to the bar. Ian explains that they keep their guitars with this guy who lives in The Village, making it easier for them to practise and perform, not having to drag their instruments from Brooklyn. Brendon's got some old acoustic at his place that he can practise with. Ian goes into great detail about it.

Brendon's sitting by the same corner table that I occupied before, and he doesn't look at me when I sit down opposite him and place the glass of water in front of him. He's smoking, flicking the tip above the ashtray. Ian sits down next to me and says, "I'd love some tips from you, man. About being a star and stage performance and all that."

"That could take all night," I say. I'm joking, but Ian doesn't get it.

"Let's hope not," Brendon says, now leaning back in his chair. He takes a drag, cheeks hollowing, He seems to be looking at my hands on the table rather than my face. "Can't stay long. My shift starts at noon." Our eyes meet briefly. He knows what I think about that. I've said my piece. Ian only nods like yeah, business as usual. His friends aren't even real friends.

Ian does most of the talking, buzzing, pupils blown, sweating, explaining with his hands. Brendon keeps smoking, nodding in agreement on the rare times that Ian makes a good point on music as the expression of the soul. I mostly just look at Brendon, who tries not to notice. I try not to look at him too much. He's just beautiful. That's all. Two locks of hair keep falling in front of his chocolate brown eyes. He's got stubble that he undoubtedly has to shave off before work, the stubble grown more on his upper lip. He could grow a moustache if he felt like it. It'd be trendy for one thing. I've only kissed him clean shaven or with stubble, never with anything more. I've never properly kissed bearded men at all. It'd leave no room for pretending not to know that it's not a woman. Brendon never did leave any room, anyway, despite his hips that I loved grabbing onto when we fucked. I loved all of it: his calloused fingertips, protruding hipbones, the hair on his legs and arms, his thick cock and how tight the skin of his balls was when he was really fucking hard. The scent of his sex. I wonder if he still smells the same.

"Oh, I saw someone!" Ian announces, eyes gleaming as he stops what has been a soliloquy for the past four minutes. "I'll be right back." He gets up and vanishes into the crowd, calling out someone's name.

With Ian no longer distracting us, Brendon looks even more restless. The silence lingers on.

"So," I say, and Brendon does this little 'yeah' shrug, lips pursed tight as he lifts his glass of water.

He then places it down carefully, thumb rubbing the glass's rim. "Shane's really excited about the documentary."

"We all are."

"He thinks you're strange."

"Strange?" I repeat, and Brendon nods. Shane does seem intimidated by me even though he clearly wants to prostrate himself whenever he sees me. It's not bad, being strange. I finish my drink in one go. "You don't mind?" I ask, and Brendon quirks an eyebrow. "About him working with the band. Coming on tour with us next spring."

"I'm in a situation where I don't have the luxury to mind," he says through slightly gritted teeth.

"He'll do the documentary for half the price an established director will."

"Sure that's why you chose him," he says sarcastically.

I look at the girl on stage, dropping her pick, bending over to pick it up, and getting enthusiastic cheers from the male members of the audience. "So why haven't you told Shane about... you know. I doubt he'd want to work with me if he knew I beat him to it."

Brendon is smiling disbelievingly to his glass when I look at him. Yeah, it's not like it was a race. Not like Shane and I are the only men to have ever gone there. But why has Brendon kept quiet? He loves Shane, after all. He was shouting it from rooftops not so long ago. So why lie? The shame? The guilt? There's got to be a reason.

"It's not healthy for any relationship to recite one's entire sexual past," he says before tucking hair behind his ear and taking another sip of water. I don't think I've ever seen him drink water before. He scratches his temple nervously. "Besides, now it'd only make things weird. He's signed the contract. He's happier not knowing, and it was just. A meaningless thing, so I don't see the reason to." He stops to consider his words, but then seems to put it behind himself. "Anyway. Shane's working with you guys. That hardly affects my life. He'll talk about it a lot, but I'll talk about my day too."

"Like couples do," I supply, even if I am fully stuck on 'meaningless thing'. So meaningless that I have his skin crawling whenever we see each other. I don't care if it's dislike because it's not indifference. It's not meaningless. If it was meaningless, he would have told Shane.

"Yeah, like couples do." He stubs out the cigarette into the ashtray. "I doubt your girlfriend knows a blow by blow account of your flings either."

"Even I don't know that."

"Yeah." He shifts restlessly. "Exactly."

He looks around the room, from the girl singing badly on stage to the lookers on to the people hanging at the bar to the lone guy in the corner scribbling on napkins, looking like a pretentious poet if there ever was one. Brendon sighs. "Where'd Ian disappear to?" I can't see him anywhere either, and Brendon stands up and smoothes down his dress shirt. His jeans hug his legs tightly, and I don't look at the shape and contours of his body, lands that I once explored. He wouldn't let me anywhere near him now.

"I'm sure Ian's fine."

"I don't see him anywhere, and he wouldn't just take off," Brendon argues. "I'll be back in a minute."

He goes after Ian like a good friend would. The good friend that he is.

I feel idle and out of place, and fuck it, I've finished my drink again. Should've flat out asked for the bottle. I head to the bar again, get ice again, and I lean against the sticky wood of the counter and stare at the golden contents of the glass, at the little ice cubes floating in it.

A hand lands on my shoulder unexpectedly. "Ryan." I crane my neck and look at Brendon, then at his fingers on my jacket. The way the calloused fingertips press into my bony shoulder through my clothes. They slip off. "I, um – Ian's taken some shit. He's in the toilets. I need help back there." He fidgets. "Our friends have gone and –"

"Okay."

A simple 'Ryan' would have sufficed.

I follow Brendon to the dirty and claustrophobic men's toilets, black tile floors, orange walls. Makes me feel neurotic. Ian's sitting on the floor between two urinals, legs spread out, back against the wall. His mouth is hanging open, and he looks like he's rolling around in bliss instead of the gruesome reality of piss.

"Ian," Brendon says, going over and giving Ian a shake. "Ian, we're leaving now."

"But we've just arrived, man," Ian declares, eyes out of focus. He laughs at something behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see if someone's there. Nothing but a bathroom stall.

"He's fucked," I say, and Brendon glares at me like that's kind of obvious, thank you very much. He's not dangerously fucked, but semi-coherent. There's nothing to be worried about.

"Come help me," Brendon says snappily.

Together we get Ian up to standing, Ian's arms wrapped around our shoulders. He weighs like a ton of bricks, laughing loudly and mumbling incoherently. LSD, maybe? Coke? It's hard to tell. He dangles between us, and I get a mouthful of hair at one point when he almost slumps against me. "He just needs some air," Brendon says when we get out of the toilets. Air. Sure. I've heard that one before.

Dragging Ian up the stairs of the bar is painful, but we manage it and soon are on the cold street. Brendon realises that Ian's forgotten his jacket and while he retrieves it, I let Ian sit back down on the sidewalk with his back to the closed formal attire rental shop a few doors down from the bar. Ian shivers but doesn't actually seem to be aware of the chilly December air.

"Having a good time?" I ask Ian as I get out a cigarette.

He doesn't hear, but suddenly, his eyes focus on me. "I'm a fag," he says. Yeah. Sure. I figured as much. He laughs. "I'm a gay fag, so I'm always having a good time."

"Good for you."

He grins like a madman. "I'd love for you to fuck me. For Ryan Ross to fuck me."

I laugh and light my cigarette. "Again, good for you."

He closes his eyes and breathes. Then he leans to his side a little and vomits on the street. I'm a safe distance away, but instinctively step back from the mess. He better throw up now and not when he's lying on his back. No, definitely don't want that. Something as simple as gravity has snatched away some of our best men already.

"Aw, fuck me," Brendon's irritated voice comes as he's now back. He looks at Ian finishing up his impromptu street decorations. He's got Ian's jacket with him, an ugly brown coat dangling from his grip. Instead of helping it on Ian, he just stares at his friend. "How the fuck am I supposed to get him home now? He's going to vomit all over the subway and me, and he can hardly walk."

"Take a taxi," I offer.

Brendon laughs. "Yeah, like I have money for that." I open my mouth, but Brendon says, "_Don't_."

"I was just going to say," I say slowly, pacifying, "that I don't live too far from here. Leave Ian on my couch for the night. I'll kick him out in the morning."

Brendon looks down the street winding westwards. Wind ruffles his hair. "How far away?"

"Fifteen minutes with him," I estimate. "Just need to get on Thompson Street and start heading south."

Ian's laughing to himself, not at all bothered by his nausea just a second ago. Brendon looks hesitant, eyes flying between his friend and me. "You sure you'd be okay with that?"

"Gabe does it all the time," I lie.

He hesitates for a second longer before he says, "Well, I guess it's easier than dragging him to Brooklyn." He sounds defensive when he doesn't need to be. We help Ian up to standing, and Brendon manages to put the jacket on him and even zip it up. Ian's too disorientated to be allowed to walk by himself, but after two blocks he gets rejuvenated, pulls free from us, and proceeds to zig-zag on the sidewalk as we keep our eyes on him. "He's not usually like this," Brendon says after a while. We're sharing a cigarette since I offered him one. Ian's hugging a street lamp. Brendon takes a long drag, looking embarrassed. His best friend's a junkie, and his boyfriend's a no show. "Someone must've offered him some cheap shit."

"Probably. That's not a good trip he's on," I muse because Ian's getting paler and paler, now shivering. There's no need to take him to a hospital, though. He still knows his name and who I am. When that starts to go, that's when I'll worry.

We firmly guide Ian when we turn on Thompson Street. "Four blocks down," I say, and we walk into the long line of cast-iron buildings as a taxi rattles down the cobble street. Brendon passes me my cigarette back. His fingers are cold when they briefly brush mine, our breaths rising into the air.

Ian stumbles ahead of us slowly. "We're not in Kansas anymore!" he howls, cackling, followed by, "Who said that?" He looks around in bewilderment, eyes wide and panicked.

"He's usually _really_ not like this," Brendon persists.

We're back to dragging Ian as his energy fades, and as we cross Prince Street, two tonsured men in brown tunics pass us, both smiling our way. "Peace, Ryan!" one of them says.

"You too, Brother Jack," I say, nodding since my arms are preoccupied with Ian. Ian's hand flies around aimlessly and tips my hat over my eyes. I mutter curses, and we stop for me to fix it. Brendon is quirking an eyebrow, looking after the two men, and I say, "Franciscans friars. They live on the next block." Brendon is still staring, Ian dangling between us with his head bobbing to our movements like he's a buoy at sea. "The brothers are big Followers fans," I explain, and Brendon laughs disbelievingly. It's a very colourful neighbourhood, the perfect environment to disappear into. I nod towards the red brick building we're now outside of. "This is it."

Fire escape stairs go back and forth over the facade, and someone's smoking on the landing of the third floor. We ascend the stone steps to the front door as I get out my keys.

"Which floor you on?" Brendon asks, trying to support Ian the best he can.

"Sixth. Top floor."

"Any chance there's an elevator in there?"

I push the door open and grin at Brendon. "Nope."

Ian falls flat on his face through the opened doorway. Brendon stares at his friend's back. "Great."

Dragging Ian up six floors definitely isn't what I had planned for the evening, but Brendon and I manage it. I take Ian's shoulders, and Brendon takes his legs. Brendon's a lot stronger than he looks – I noticed that when he was a roadie for us. My left elbow starts hurting when we reach the fourth landing, but I grit my teeth and say nothing. Ian mumbles incoherently, occasionally pulling away from our hold, and we almost drop him on the hard steps at least a dozen times. When we get to the top with Ian still intact and not bleeding, I'm pleasantly surprised.

Brendon's out of breath, his hair a mess. I get out keys again and open the door to my apartment before lifting Ian up one last time. "Living room couch," I say, leading the way as we carry Ian along the entrance hallway, reaching the end where the living room opens up on one side. We carefully walk past the LP shelves covering one of the living room walls, and I hit my shin against the corner of the coffee table, but we manage to lie Ian down on the couch.

"Ow," he groans from us apparently having been too rough, but he seems comfortable where he is, relaxing against the cushions. I try to catch my breath a little, unbuttoning my coat and throwing it on the couch that's still free.

"He'll be alright there for the night," I say, noticing the remote sticking from beneath Ian's back, quickly pulling it from beneath him and putting it on the coffee table.

"Wow," Brendon says. He's not looking at Ian, but at the dining table that's on the other side of the room, next to the archway to the kitchen. That area is a dining room, really, though it's not separated by an actual wall. Brendon looks around in the dark, street light coming through the windows. "This place is, like... three times bigger than that place you had in LA."

"I upgraded," I explain but then it occurs to me that Brendon's in my home, and I start motioning around like an idiot. "This used to be one big space. I think they made shoes here in the fifties. I bought it real cheap, had these walls built... There was an architect drawing it up."

"And Keltie decorated." He's eyeing a pair of panties on the living room floor between us. Plain white ones that are visible in the dark. Keltie likes the pair.

I quickly pick them up, annoyed that they decided to lie there for all the world to see. I stuff them in my pant pocket quickly. "I hired someone to decorate the place. Keltie and I don't live together."

Brendon looks genuinely surprised. "You mean you've got... half of this building's top floor all to yourself?"

"Yeah."

Brendon seems impressed at first, but then he only laughs emptily. "Life must be fucking easy when you're loaded."

"Not really," I mutter, throwing my hat on top of my coat and going for my tie next. Ian's other arm dangles off the couch awkwardly.

"Ryan," Ian mumbles from the couch, gazing at me through half-lidded eyes. He's got a stupidly proud grin on his face. "You're radiating orange and blue." He tugs at his own shirt in disorientation. "We going to fuck now?"

"Ian, what the fuck?" Brendon hisses. He didn't hear the previous proposal on the street, but I don't get why he's so shocked. Ian can never take his eyes off of me.

"Maybe later," I say, and Ian looks disappointed but then loses his moment of clarity and curls up in on himself tiredly.

"Jesus," Brendon says.

"Don't be too hard on the kid," I say as we now head back to the hallway leading to the door. I switch the lights on, finally managing to tug off my tie. When Brendon scoffs, I say, "His crush is kind of cute."

"Vomiting all over 4th Street isn't cute," he argues, his steps slowing by the wall of book shelves, head tilting as he reads the titles. I push the bedroom door open, switching the lights on there too before throwing my tie on the unmade bed. It lands on the floor halfway there. "If he, like," Brendon says from behind me, "gets up in the middle of the night to try and molest you, don't feel guilty about punching his lights out."

"I'm not going to fuck him, in case you're worried," I say, my eyes landing on the bed where a rectangular, flat package that got delivered earlier is still lying. I quickly close the door before Brendon sees it.

"I'm not worried."

I quickly card my hair, restless for no reason. I should have stopped to consider the situation more fully before bringing him here. I cover up my anxiety with a smirk. "You sound worried."

"For him, maybe. He's totally fucked."

"Well, he's not my type," I respond in annoyance, unbuttoning the top buttons of my dress shirt. Like he honestly thinks I'd need to take advantage of his friend. "You want a drink?"

"No, no, I need to get going." It's getting close to one in the morning, and it shows on him. His eyes are tired, his features softer somehow, but he's trying not to show it. He tries to be as angular as he can, tough as steel. He looks like Brooklyn's too far away, but he'll be damned if he admits that. "Shane's probably back already too, and –" He stops in the middle of a sentence, a sudden calm taking over him even as his eyes fill with wonder. "That's mine."

"What?"

"What you're wearing." His eyes focus on the slice of chest that's now been exposed by the opened top buttons. I look down myself and can just see the silver chain resting against my skin. "That's mine," he repeats. "I gave it to you once." His voice sounds searching. Our eyes meet, and I can feel cold sweat pushing through. "During that photo shoot on the roof."

I shake my head with a quick laugh. "This isn't the same chain."

"Looks a lot like it."

"Well, it's not."

"You sure? I got my initials engraved onto the clasp, and –"

"This isn't that one!" I snap angrily, and Brendon takes a step back, eyes widening. Stupid chain. Stupid night. Stupid life. I quickly button up my shirt, and I don't know what to say now, what the hell he wants me to say. He seems to be at a loss for words too. I don't know why I wanted him to drop by. See the place. Impress him. Pathetic. "You better go."

"Yeah. Alright." He looks solemn. "I'm going."

I see him to the door, and he gets a brown woollen scarf out of his jacket pocket and wraps it around his neck. He takes two steps out the door before he swirls around quickly. "Thanks. By the way. For looking after Ian. You really didn't have to, you know."

"It's no bother."

"Yeah, but –" He stops and fidgets slightly, like he isn't sure what protocol should be followed in this case. "Just thank you. I appreciate it."

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. "Wow. I deserve an actual English thank you."

His brows furrow, but then he laughs. "Oh!" His eyes sparkle for a second, reminding me of a time that passed a long time ago. My chest constricts painfully. "I, um, I don't do that anymore." He smiles wide at the memory, a faint pink blush on his cheeks. He's never looked more charming in his life. "I realised that if it's the only thing going for me, it's kind of sad, so. I stopped doing it."

"It wasn't sad. It made you different." I focus all of my attention to my finger nails. "That's what I liked about you."

When I look up, his smile is gone. "Goodnight, then," he says quietly.

I tip an invisible hat. "Bonsoir."

He lets out a laugh and smiles, and I don't know why I feel like I've just been crowned the king of New York for the simple achievement.

Brendon lifts his hand as a goodbye, smiling, and I lift my hand in return. He pulls up the collar of his jacket as he gets to the stairs, soon disappearing from sight though his footsteps echo. I keep listening to the sound until the door opens and closes six floors down.

I finally kick my shoes off as I close my front door. Ian's snoring loudly in the living room, but I hardly hear it once my bedroom door is closed as a sound barrier.

My bed squeaks when I sit on the edge, and I pick up the parcel lying next to me. The brown, thick paper is hard to tear off, but soon I have the large frame in my hands. A blurry, black and white Brooklyn street stares at me, but I ignore it, and there in the corner, there: the face of a man with soft looking skin. A shy smile. Eyes cast downwards. Hair a mess. Happiness and love captured in one stupid shot. His lips look soft. Maybe a bit swollen, like he's just been kissed, before they left the confines of their apartment.

I turn the photo frame around to find a little piece of paper glued to the back: 'The Boy by Shane Valdes.'

I flip it back around, look at Brendon's smiling form a second time, and then I quickly hide the frame under my bed, convinced that I don't have to think about it if I can't see it.

I can show up for his shows, employ his boyfriend, take care of his idiot friend, but there isn't necessarily anything I can do to tip the scale in my favour, so why the fuck am I still persistently turning myself into a joke in his eyes? Because he knows. He's known since we first met at that party, and he still...

A thud sounds from the other side of the wall. Ian's fallen onto the floor. "Fuck," I laugh miserably and let myself fall backwards on the bed.

Although I can't feel it, the chain's lock is pressing 'B.B.U.' into the skin of my neck.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Stalemate**

"Do you hear that?" Jon asks, a concentrated look on his face. The practice room goes quiet as the rest of us try to figure out what Jon means.

Patrick, who is sitting on the stool next to mine with my old bass in his lap, frowns. He pushes glasses up his nose. "I don't hear anything."

"Exactly," Jon says with a grin, content sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, bare feet sticking out at the sides. "Isn't it marvellous how peaceful it is when Gabriel Saporta fails to show up for practice?"

Keltie laughs from the couch, flipping onto the next page of the women's magazine she's got with her.

"My guess is that he's passed out somewhere," Jon goes on. "Like that time he vanished for a week, came back and said that he just somehow woke up in Atlantic City and stayed to gamble."

"They just legalised gambling over there. Good some of us are enjoying it," I argue, not wanting to say that Jon's probably right and that Gabe's most likely snoring loudly with a girl or a guy glued to his naked skin.

Patrick turns to me nervously. "Should we be talking about this when...?" he asks and nods to Shane, who is behind the video camera that he's set up on a tripod. It's his own camera, said that it cost a fortune as it's the latest technology. It has to be: a portable camera. It even fits on Shane's shoulder without him having to hunch like he's walked out of Notre Dame.

"I'm not recording," Shane informs us, standing up and no longer examining us through the lens. "I just want to see how the lighting works in here and then do that take of you guys playing a song." He's been anxious to get at least some rough material before Christmas. We're all going our different ways for a good three weeks. It was going to be a short break. Christmas is next week already and Jon and I will be back for New Year's, but while Gabe was intent on staying in town for the holidays, he's now booked flights to go to Montevideo, claims he's got a sick great grandmother that has expressed a dire wish to see him before her death. Gabe just feels like going on holiday, that's all. I'm mostly surprised he's got the money for it. In any case, The Whiskeys and I won't be doing anything of real value for some time, which made the director uneasy and so Shane insisted that he shoot at least something.

"Sure, we'll do one of the acoustic ones. We won't need Gabe for those," I say with a shrug. Jon's not really upset over Gabe's absence. Normally he'd be, and he'd give Gabe a piece of his mind when he'd eventually stumble in, hungover and hungry and asking for cigarettes, but even Jon knows that this was never going to be a serious session and that if Gabe stumbles in, he won't have it in him to send Vicky breathing down Gabe's neck. Jon's leaving for Chicago with Cassie in two days, so he can't be bothered working on the music seriously right now either. And Keltie's here because I asked her to come and because we've got plans tonight, so it's not like this was ever going to extend into the early hours of the morning again.

A lot of girls would be pestering me to put the guitar away and finish up already – we've got the housewarming party of some Rockette to attend – but Keltie seems content reading _Vogue_ with a narrow-nosed blonde on the cover. She's great like that. The past few days I've spent more time with her than I have in a week or two. I forgot how great she is to have around, how wide she smiles at me when I walk into the room.

She notices me looking at her and winks. I smile and look away.

"Jon, you want to stay on the floor?" Shane asks tentatively, voice indicating that he'd rather Jon didn't.

Jon stands up instantly, grip firm on the guitar's neck. "Where d'you want me?"

Shane begins fussing about, and Jon must see something on my face that I don't mean to show because he says a mumbled, "He's the professional," to me, which Shane doesn't hear. Yeah, Shane's the professional. Three documentaries on his belt, two artistic short films. I hired him, and I could fire him, too, but what would Brendon say to that? He'd probably express relief after having decapitated me for messing with him and Shane too much. I don't mean to. I just didn't have that many options.

And now I have to watch Brendon's lover prance around my practice space, cracking jokes with Jon and Patrick, who both seem to like him. Even Keltie seems to approve.

Shane's a charmer. Oh, he's a fucking charmer, and I've run out of ideas.

"What time is it?" Patrick asks Jon, who checks his wristwatch and says that it's quarter past five. Patrick seems to make a mental note of it, and then smiles apologetically. "I've got to leave for work in half an hour. The store's full of parents trying to get that vampire book under the Christmas tree." He scoffs. "Vampires. The kids these days."

"I liked that book," Jon says from the couch. "The Lestat guy sounded pretty sexy."

Patrick scoffs again, though Jon's grin is an obvious sign of him trying to push Patrick's buttons a little. "Thank god I'm quitting after the holidays," he says and rubs his face with a tired hand. He's not used to staying up until sunrise and then having an actual job on the side too. Gabe, Jon and I have nothing else to do.

"I keep forgetting you work at a book store!" Shane says happily, having now seated Jon on a stool next to Patrick and me. "Brendon never mentioned it, and now you're in The Whiskeys."

"It's a step up," Patrick admits and fixes his bowtie self-consciously, eyeing the camera gazing at us with its dead circle eye of nothing.

It only hits me then that there will actually be a documentary. I was mostly convinced that it wouldn't work out, that Vicky would talk me out of it, that Shane would get struck by lightning. Jon asks me what song we should play.

I recall The Followers' first and last TV appearance. Spencer was wearing this stupid bandanna, and we smoked outside beforehand, and he said that the hat that Jac had made for me was ridiculous, which it was, but I wore it because it made her happy and because it was a good joke. And I didn't like it, having to pose for the cameras. I hated the self-exposure, and Spencer got that. Squeezed my shoulder. Said it'd be okay.

Jon and Patrick don't get it. Keltie doesn't.

I fleetingly wish that Spencer was here.

But fuck me if he'd get it either anymore. Doesn't matter. An old friend, a more recent enemy. It's just a part of something bigger. Not sure what yet. I'm working it out. Or, even worse, an old lover that is dangling in front of me like a damn carrot stick for a donkey. So I'm the donkey. That's great. That's fantastic. And then Shane's the other donkey that trots over and munches the stick in front of me. Bad donkey. Shoot the donkey.

"Ryan?" Shane's voice comes from some other world, and I blink and find my bandmates, director and girlfriend looking at me.

"Yeah. Um. Let's take a break before we start."

Shane looks crestfallen. I dig out cigarettes, hand the guitar to Patrick, and walk across the room, steering clear of the camera. I plop down on the couch next to Keltie, who has put her copy of _Vogue_ down onto her lap. She looks at me with brown eyes full of love and concern. She never attempts to hide her feelings. It's almost embarrassing weren't it so comforting. "You okay?" she asks, her fingers carding my hair, sliding locks behind my ear with certain movements, the finesse gained from having done it a lot.

"Sure." I don't offer her the cigarette. She doesn't smoke. It's bad for you, she claims. I suck on the stick energetically.

I keep my eyes on the video camera, the machine gun, the ugly teller of truths. Why did it seem like a good idea to offer myself to the world after all this time? What will people think of it? Will I be sympathetic? Some otherworldly genius? An asshole? I don't know what story the camera plans on telling. Shane's a fan. That should help, but I look less shiny to him every day. That always happens: I'm the ugly duckling reversed. I look like a swan, but when you wait a while...

Patrick and Jon are talking to Shane about the lights or which side of their face is more photogenic or where they should look.

Keltie cuddles closer, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her in. She's warm and solid and smells like that perfume I got her once. "I can't wait for my parents to meet you," she says.

"Can't wait to meet them either," I say automatically, but the words come out heavy and strained. Everything's heavy and strained now. Bonsoir, I said, like a well-travelled man, and he smiled at that, but I must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss, and by extension a smile is just a smile. Dooley knew what he was on about, and it drapes over me. I don't hate Shane. I never did. I just thought he was an idiot. But now it seems that he can't be overthrown, _him_, and I'm _me_, and yet nothing has changed, and now I have to decide whether or not to hate him. He doesn't deserve my wrath. He's not special enough for that. At least Joe is. Brent too. Spencer. Him especially.

"I want to show you the school I went to, the park near our house," Keltie lists in this sing-song voice that is soothing. Going to Canada for Christmas. Fly to Calgary, then to Edmonton, drive from there. Sit down with Mom and Dad while Keltie beams and clutches my hand tightly. Picket fence Canada. It somehow rings even worse than our own more patriotic version, probably because they're Canadians and thus by default have more sincerity in their happiness.

But as much as it disgusts me, I'm simultaneously enthralled and curious. How does Spencer James Smith do it? He was supposed to be like me. I spent my adolescence moulding Spencer to be just like me, just not quite as bad, and I thought I did such a fabulous job and then – Well. Maybe it's the women. They change men. And if Haley did it, who says Keltie won't do it for me?

And then the carrot stick is just a carrot stick that I have no interest in eating. Sure.

Maybe I should vouch for hating Shane.

"Hey," Keltie says, soft and melodic. I didn't realise that I let out a dramatic sigh. Her eyes are questioning and worried.

"I'm fine," I assure her. "I'm fine. Just." I glance at the guys, the camera, the spy, the eater of souls. "Just promise me that if Shane wants to do more than one song, you'll say we're late and get me out of here, okay?"

She gently brushes my cheek with the back of her hand. "Okay." She doesn't ask why, but clearly can tell that this session doesn't have me within my comfort zone.

"You're my rock," I say and kiss her on the forehead. She beams at me when I get up, and my insides flutter a little. She's not in vain, that girl.

Thankfully, she doesn't know that I call Vicky my rock whenever I see her. Keltie doesn't like Vicky. Or Greta. Or any females I work with, it seems. Greta doesn't realise it. Vicky does. She might be a little in love with me, Vicky, but a lot of them are. I should ask Gabe what he thinks. He knows these things.

"Alright," I say when I sit back on my stool and take the guitar that Patrick hands me. "We'll do..." One that doesn't have a single reference to runaway kids, lost boys, cocky young men, free spirits, etc. And nothing about summers. I hate summers. "Fuck, we'll do a song about..." I scratch the side of my head. Shane's behind the camera now, hand on the lever on the side that allows him to move the black block around. A red light is on, and I forgot what I meant to say. I duck my head quickly. This is just to get something filmed, Shane said. This won't end up in the actual documentary. "Back in the summer of '75, I was in Portland. I hired a car to drive down to LA, but I ended up in Nevada, and in a bar I met this guy who worked in a circus. He was in bad shape. I was in bad shape. But he said to me that kids still laugh, and the sun still rises, which just made me think of that Hemingway novel and made me think of ghosts and some people I didn't want to think about. I got back to the car, ran out of gas in the desert and wrote a song. It's called _Five Close Calls_, all for the times I think I probably should've died by now. It'll be on the album, I think."

And then I start playing, and Jon joins in automatically. Patrick's got a tambourine ready, and it's almost good that Gabe isn't here because the song sounds better stripped down and raw, oozing blood. It's a lengthy song, somewhere between six and seven minutes, but I had a lot to say when I wrote it, and there's a bit where Jon and Patrick do backup vocals, and Patrick doesn't mess up once despite being new. But I feel embarrassed singing it, not sure why I said too much. I should've just played it. Let them wonder at the strange imagery.

When we finally finish the song, I look up to find Shane and Keltie standing behind the camera, both looking transfixed. A silence lands on us, and I fidget slightly. "Was that alright?"

Keltie marches over and gives me a hug out of nowhere. She squeezes me tightly, and her eyelashes brush the side of my face, leaving wet marks behind. Shane clears his throat. "Yeah." His voice sounds rough. "Yeah, that was alright."

Jon and Patrick look guilty like they've just read my diary, even if they don't know anything of the specifics.

"That was great," she says, but there's sadness in her eyes. I want to tell her that it's not her fault. It's just a song. I wrote it before I met her, and I'm still not sure if I wanted to die when I wrote it. I can't have because I'm still here.

A knock sounds from the door, breaking the spell of something all too serious lingering around. The red light of the camera dies, fades out like it's retreating.

"I'll get that," Shane says, and Keltie pulls back from the hug.

The warmth and sparks of her touch seem to vanish, and the hairs at the back of my neck prick up when I hear a voice I'd recognise anywhere. Shane's holding the door open, and Brendon's stepped into the practice space, wrapped up in a thick, grey winter coat. The entire world shifts focus, or at least my world does, and it feels like all of my vital organs curl up painfully. Our eyes meet before I can stop it, and the rush of blood to my head sounds loud in my ears. I drop my gaze simultaneously with him. Fuck.

"Hey, guys," he says. He sounds out of breath, like he was in a hurry on his way here. I sneak a glance and admire the pinkness of his cheeks. It's cold outside.

We mumble replies. I wrap an arm around Keltie's waist and keep her standing by me, focusing on the way her hip feels beneath my hand.

"So this is the lair, huh?" Brendon asks.

"This is it," Jon says.

Patrick is smiling at Brendon, though it's become clear that Patrick is better acquainted with Ian, and knows Brendon mostly by extension. He asks, "What brings you here?"

"Yeah, what are you doing here?" Shane queries, looking perplexed and still holding the door open like he didn't expect his boyfriend to march through it.

Brendon turns to Shane. "We're going Christmas shopping." Pause. "We are, aren't we?"

There's an edge of ominous gloom in Brendon's voice, and I busy myself examining the floor. I'm okay with watching Shane, and I can bear looking at Brendon, too, if I have to. But throw them both into the mix, and I'd rather not.

"Oh! That- That was today? I thought. I mean." Shane sounds thrown off. "Shit, you want me to go now?"

"Well, yeah," Brendon says, and a tense silence lands between them, radiating all the way across the room to us. Brendon clears his throat. "Can we talk outside for a minute?"

The door opens and closes without me hearing anything else, and I finally lift my hanging head.

Jon chuckles, "Someone's in trouble." Keltie frowns, and yeah, she doesn't know they're gay and dating. I don't see why I need to blow their roommate cover either. Jon knows, of course, heard Brendon yelling that Jon's old drummer could suck his cock or something along the lines, and I assume that Patrick knows. Or at least suspects it, but is considerate enough not to ask. "Shane said he'd come out with me tonight," Jon then adds.

Raised voices carry through the door, the dense wooden particles blurring what sounds like a 'have only been home to sleep in the past two days, how could I remember', but I don't want to hear a word of that exchange or soak myself in the angered words and offended glares. I don't want to keep on clutching at straws.

Jon figures that we shouldn't be eavesdropping and starts playing the intro to a Canadian History song that I vaguely recognise.

"You think we're done here?" I ask and motion at the camera.

"Probably," Jon agrees, and I slide off the stool, glad to be off the hook.

"We should get going," I tell Keltie. Sticking around in hopes of a massive row between the lovers would just make me a sadder fuck than Brendon's already proven me to be. He's not impenetrable though he likes to think so. There's got to be a way in, but I just don't know what it is, and right now, not knowing is exhausting me. Throwing myself at him seems like the last drastic measure, but he'd turn me down and punch me in the face, and I like my face the way it is.

"We need to clean up a little," Jon says, fingers ceasing on the strings. "We won't be back for a few weeks, so we could at least put everything in place."

I look around the messy practice room and nod, but Patrick instantly says that, oh, he should be leaving for work or he'll be late for his shift. Sneaky fucker.

"You'll help us, right?" I ask Keltie, but she looks hesitant.

"Well, I just – I wondered if I had time to stop in the shoe store across the street?" she asks, eyes suddenly lighting up in girlish enthusiasm, and I don't have it in me to say no to that.

"Sure," I concede, and she pecks my lips before grabbing her jacket and heading out with Patrick. They get to the door just as it opens, and Shane and Brendon come in. The arriving and departing guests do a back and forth motion of who goes first before Keltie's laugh disarms the situation, and Shane and Brendon step aside to let her and Patrick through.

Brendon's face is expressionless, but Shane looks like Brendon's got him by the balls and is annoyed by it. "Listen, Jon." He motions back and forth aimlessly and says, "I think I'll have to cancel, man. This is probably the only chance we get to go buy our friends' presents together. It totally escaped my mind. Another time, yeah?"

"Yeah, man. Don't worry about it."

Brendon's wearing a red scarf, not the same one he wore a few nights ago. I wonder if he intends to promote the Christmas spirit with it.

"I'll need to drive the van around for my stuff," Shane then says, and yeah, half of the mess in the practice room is Shane's, not ours: cameras, video cameras, lights, cables. "Bren, could you get the car? I parked it two blocks down and –"

"You want me to do it when you should've been ready when I got here?" Brendon asks disbelievingly, and Shane opens his mouth like he's going to say his piece, but Brendon says, "You know I can't work that thing; the gears are fucked."

"You just need to give the gear stick a little shake like I showed you, and –"

"But I'm _telling_ you that it won't cooperate with me!"

"I'll do it," Jon says out of nowhere, and Brendon and Shane both quiet down. "I'm kind of magical with cars. My dad's a mechanic, you know." He keeps smiling, and I realise that he's probably trying to get Brendon to like him again. Jon's not a softie, but he seems to be one of those guys who doesn't rest knowing that someone dislikes him. Despite having been a musician for as long as I have, Jon still has so much to learn. You can't pick your enemies, so you need to accept them and move on. "If you show me how to drive the thing, I think we'll be fine," he then tells Brendon.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure," Brendon concedes and takes the keys that Shane is now giving him. "But be quick down here," he says, eyeing all of Shane's stuff. "Stores will close in an hour, and I want to get William something nice, alright?"

"I'll be as quick as I can," Shane says, sending Brendon what looks like an appeasing puppy smile, but Brendon just turns on his heels and marches out.

When Jon passes Shane, the director says a simple, "Thanks." I focus on picking up one of the guitar cables and rolling it together. "Christmas shopping," Shane says, widening his eyes almost comically to indicate how insane he thinks it is as he walks over to the tripod.

"Yeah." I don't see the point in saying anything more.

He easily detaches the video camera from the tripod and carefully carries it to the couch, where he sits down and gets out the padded camera bag. "Um," he says just as I unplug a bass. His hair is falling in front of his eyes, and he flicks it back by jerking his head to the side. "Sorry about that. I know this is a workplace."

He's talking about Brendon. To me.

"Don't worry about it."

"No, really. I'm committed to this project, I really am. Brendon just –"

"_Really._" Shut up. God, shut up, shut up, shut up.

"Okay." Yet, after a short pause, he says, "I want to get William a good present too, you know. Keep myself in his good graces, although he kind of adores me." He laughs a little, and I hate the way his hair looks so shiny and silky and smooth, when mine is never like that but unruly and impossible. William also hated my guts. Thought I was no good for Brendon. Yeah, he was right and probably delighted to know it. "William can be damn scary when he's mad, so Bren's probably right about the present."

"Yeah. I guess."

"Yeah..." His voice is lingering somehow, catching my attention, and when I'm done putting the bass into a hard case, I look over to Shane, who's still sitting down but now rolling a cable. He looks thoughtful and unsure. "You, um. Can I ask you something?" His voice sounds nervous. I nod because if someone asks you if they can ask you something, you can't really say no. "I know that you were, you know, on tour and doing interviews and really busy, but you must've spent some time with the roadies too back then, right? At least sometimes."

Shane is definitely the last person in this world I want to discuss that summer with.

"Sure."

"Yeah, so... Did William and Brendon ever...?" His voice trails off, and he does a vague hand motion. "I mean. Did it seem to you that the two of them might have?"

I don't know what I was expecting him to say, but definitely not that, and I laugh without meaning to. Shane looks affronted. "Um, I think Brendon slept with Bowie but William? No, no. God, no." Shane looks at me funny. He probably thinks I'm making the Bowie bit up, but I'm not. "William and Brendon are just friends. Were the last time I checked, anyway," I then say, suddenly getting a slice of Shane's paranoia. Who knows what happened after it was over. Maybe William decided to comfort Brendon a little.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right," Shane then says, frowning like he's not sure what's wrong with him. "Bren's just been off lately, and he keeps stressing out about William coming to visit us over Christmas. Something or someone's got to be on his mind." He now laughs embarrassedly. "I thought that maybe, you know. He and Bill. Because William's always been overly protective of Brendon. I figured that maybe it was jealousy or something. That maybe William was or that at one point they had... I don't know." He drops the cable roll onto the floor and picks up another mess of liquorice-like cable. "Never mind. Sorry, it was stupid."

"Probably just Christmas stress," I offer, telling my suddenly rapid pulse to calm the fuck down. I quickly look away in fear of Shane reading something on my face that he really shouldn't.

The door opens again, and Brendon walks in. I almost flinch. Shane puts on a smile that can't be genuine but certainly looks like it is. Then again, I don't know him very well.

Brendon takes in a deep breath and says, "I know I've parallel parked tour buses when I've been on acid, but I swear to god that I cannot park that thing outside and we're holding up traffic and a turban-wearing taxi driver is threatening to beat Jon up."

Shane gets up instantly. "I'll take care of it."

Brendon breathes out, stress almost visibly draining out of him. "I'll pack some of this for you in the meantime."

"Okay," Shane says, and they smile at each other, making up after the previous bickering, and bile pools at the pit of my stomach as my uneven fingernails dig into the flesh of my palm.

Shane hurries out, and Brendon unwraps the scarf around his neck, giving me a small, meaningless smile.

"Hey," he repeats, and I nod. He unbuttons the jacket and throws it on the couch, revealing a big collared, yellow plaid shirt and a pair of blue jeans that come up high on the waist, the shirt neatly tucked into the tight jeans. I never care what Jon's wearing or Gabe or anyone else, but Brendon just dresses nicely. Maybe it's the fag thing that he always manages to look so fucking good.

"We're clearing up our shit too," I say for the sake of saying something. Brendon looks at me and nods. I keep waiting for something to happen: crash, bang, smoke. The air feels like it's been stretched out to its limits, is getting pulled at the corners, and even the smallest movement might cause it to break, but at the same time I feel chained down and unable to do anything about it.

Brendon takes the tripod, clearly knowing what he's doing, and two minutes pass in silence while I try to think of something smooth to say, or maybe silence is golden, but I feel so aware of him and everything he does, and my guts are still twisting into messy cable knots from Shane's words.

"So," he says suddenly, halting me as I'm now taking the cymbals off the drum kit. The simple word is already making it easier to breathe. I just need to stay calm. That's all. "You got any Christmas plans?"

"Yeah. Going to Keltie's parents' house in Alberta."

Brendon nods. "Oh. Right." He pushes the tripod legs together and looks at me briefly, a sprinkle of chocolate brown eyes. "Have a good trip."

"Thanks." After a considerable pause and after I've put the cymbals in hardcases, I ask, "You?"

"Just working. It's busy around this time of the year, and people can be generous, so it's a good time to make some money."

"Shane said that Will's visiting you guys."

"Oh, yeah. That too."

"That's nice." Small talk. William keeps haunting me now, and who knows, maybe Shane's right. Maybe William's the distraction. Maybe Brendon's got a man for every finger. Maybe when William got back to San Francisco, the two spent hours bashing me, and then William fucked Brendon on that shitty, thin mattress in the guest room above Terry's drycleaners, and it was the best damn orgasm of Brendon's life. Maybe. What do I know?

"Thanks for the other night, by the way," he says.

"Oh. Did Ian get back alright, then? He seemed somewhat aware when I threw him out."

Brendon, to my surprise, smiles. "Yeah. He said that you even let him have some breakfast."

"Keltie's the one who fixed breakfast," I say truthfully. She asked who and what was on my couch and why exactly. I mumbled something in response, and Keltie shrugged it off.

"Ah. That's nice." Everything's nice, it seems, as we keep throwing the adjective around. "He didn't mention Keltie."

"She makes pretty amazing pancakes." A lie – she bought croissants from the bakery down the street, but I just want to know if the strain in Brendon's smile is real or a figment of my imagination.

"Yeah," he replies. "That's nice." I remain indecisive on the smile front. He rolls up cables quickly and efficiently, marks of his former profession. "Ian's sworn never to do drugs again," he then says with a grin.

"Yeah? How long will that last?"

"A week, I think."

I laugh, and he smiles wider. I press my fore and middle finger against the pulse point on my right wrist, making it look casual by wrapping all of my fingers around the tube of skin and bones.

"I just," Brendon says, voice soft. He lets out a breath. "You didn't have to, man. But I appreciate it that you did."

"It really was nothing." Somewhere at the back of my brain where I'm analysing all of this, weighing the words and body language and the laughter in his eyes, I've gained momentum and now it's there, the question, pouring out of my mouth: "Did you ever fuck him?"

He freezes and looks at me with wide eyes. "What?"

"William. Did you two ever fuck?"

He frowns, and it seems that it's mostly out of confusion and surprise that he says, "No," like he can't imagine why I'd think that or let alone ask. Shane appears to be too polite or too in love to do the digging himself. Wouldn't want to offend Brendon. Is afraid of the truth. Me, I've got nothing to lose.

"What about Ian?"

Brendon takes a step back, brows furrowing. "No. He – Fuck. He's my friend, Ry. Christ." And it's only then as an afterthought that he adds, "God, that's so none of your business."

"Yeah, it's not. Sorry." It's probably the most meaningless apology I've ever given. The surprise of me having asked is going to fade in, oh, twenty seconds' time, and then I'll be faced with his wrath.

But as if on cue, the door opens and Keltie walks in, carrying a pastel coloured shopping bag. She smiles at us and motions towards the ceiling as a vague 'up and out there' gesture. "Jon and Shane managed to park the van." She stops, takes us in. Brendon's cheeks look rosy, and yeah, there it is, the bubbling anger he'd want to launch on me right now.

"We'll be late soon," Keltie tells me, but I'm buzzing and finding it hard to concentrate. A dinner party full of Keltie's giggling friends ogling me. I'm up for it. I'm up for anything. Right now, a quick exit's key. "I don't know if I'll see you before we leave," Keltie says to Brendon as I get my jacket on, "so happy holidays!" She gives him a radiating smile.

"Yeah. You too." Brendon's voice lacks all the warmth and genuine well-wishing that Keltie's voice had.

Keltie links arms with me, and I look at Brendon. "Happy holidays," I tell him, seeing his pupils expand just a fraction when I let myself stare at him for too long. He just nods.

We pass Jon and Shane smoking by Shane's beaten down, white 50s van that's now neatly parked outside the building. We don't stay to chit chat. I don't know why I'm in such a hurry to leave, but I can't let Jon or Shane see it. It's going to be visible any second now, and I can't have them catching on.

Keltie and I have been in the taxi for two blocks when it gets the better of me, and I press my face into my palm and let myself grin. My lips stretch wide against my hand, my fingers smelling of nicotine, the hard, calloused tips pressing into my forehead. I take in a calming breath or two before leaning against the backseat. I hear thousands of imaginary fans cheering, stage lights landing on me, and the world's my stage once more.

"What's got you so happy?" Keltie asks, laughing.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nada," I reply, letting Gabe's influence on me show.

I can't seem to stop smiling.

I'm the distraction.

"You've got the most mysterious smile on your lips, Mr. Ross," Keltie tells me with a wicked grin of her own. "Something to do with my Christmas present, perhaps?" She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

"Miss Colleen, I'm afraid you'll have to keep on guessing." And then, as the high spirits and excitement gets to me, I lean over and give her a breathtaking kiss.

"This is not my idea of a good time," Eric tells me flatly as we stay a respectful twenty feet away from the doorway where a couple is engaged in a fiery goodbye kiss. Or kisses. Making out. I shrug and look up and down Pineapple Street. It's a funny name. Pineapple Street. Sounds like it should be in Honolulu, not Brooklyn. "Christ," Eric then adds to make sure I don't miss his disdain.

"You ever been to Hawaii?"

"No," he says, crossing his arms and glaring at the couple. "Is this gonna take all day? Because I could be doing something productive, you know. I could be making surprise calls on one of my record shops."

I look over and watch the girl's delicate hands grab onto the back of Gabe's black leather jacket. She shamelessly moves down and cops a feel. Gabe pushes closer, clearly enjoying the attention given to his well-toned behind. I've not noticed, but he's persistently advertised it. Eric is mumbling that he'll tip the cops about indecent exposure.

The girl is still grabbing Gabe's ass, and Eric says, "Those are _my_ jeans. Rubbing _Gabe's_ you-know-what."

"Lucky jeans," I note, and Eric shoots a death glare at me. "Hey, Romeo!" I call out. "Let's hit the road, man."

Gabe looks over his shoulder at us, mouth red like someone's smeared strawberry all over his face. It takes him a moment to focus his gaze on us, but he then proceeds to say his goodbyes to the girl. Eric readjusts his jacket and tugs at the front like he's trying to make himself look bigger. Gabe doesn't seem intimidated by it at all. "Ah, what a day to be alive!" Gabe says exasperatedly. He opens his arms to no one in particular like he'd want to embrace the world, and then just stands still, expecting to be admired.

"How high are you right now?" I ask, foreboding just a little. When he called Eric's apartment, after having called my place and getting told by Keltie where I was, he simply said that he didn't remember much of the past three days and needed some new pants because the ones he was wearing had spunk marks at the crotch. Gabe had expressed a looming suspicion that the mess hadn't been made by him, and I told him to shut up and give me the address. Eric reluctantly came along with a pair of his second class jeans that he is now looking at longingly, probably thinking that he made the wrong call letting Gabe wear those.

"From one to ten?" Gabe asks and then grins wildly. "Eleven."

"Brilliant," Eric notes sourly, voice dripping sarcasm.

"Aw, just kidding! Eric, god, you gotta relax," Gabe says, wraps his arms over our shoulders and starts pushing us down the street. It's a bright, cloudless day and the air's got just a bit of a bite to it. Gabe gets sunglasses out of his breast pocket and pushes them up the bridge of his nose. "God, I'm starving. God. That's what you get for trying to live out on loving alone." He chuckles joyfully, and he smells like it – sex. Also old booze and cigarettes and perfume and cologne, but definitely sex. "What you been up to, then?"

"Well," Eric says, "I've actually been talking to this Englishman who wants to open an Eric's in London. Go international."

"Good one," Gabe says, and there's no mockery in his tone at all. "Ry?"

"Same old, same old."

"Bullshit," he says instantly, and he lets go of me, holding onto Eric and stepping back a little. He gives me the onceover, then nudges Eric. "What's he not telling me?"

"A lot of things, one should hope."

I'm quirking an eyebrow at him, wondering where he's going with this. "You look less... brooding. Doesn't he look like a bit less like a miserable cunt right now? Or is it the light just landing on his face in a funny way?" Gabe looks up into the sky wonderingly.

"Fuck you, Saporta," I bite, and he laughs brightly. I get out a cigarette and start heading down Pineapple Street, such a happy place, sure, there should be palm trees here or _something_.

"Hermano," Gabe says when he's reached me, again wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "I'm just teasing you."

I know, I know, and I nod to indicate it too. He snatches my cigarette, and Eric catches up with us, asking what the grand plan now is. Gabe says he'd like to keep partying, and the three of us move in the midst of New Yorkers carrying Christmas shopping bags, looking stressed out and pale. It's like we aren't a part of their world at all. I can't remember the last time I didn't spend Christmas alone in a bar, and it's not because of lack of invites – god, there's always dozens, come to this party, come play at this Christmas charity show, poor Vicky's covered in the avalanche of them. I just don't like Christmas and anything that it represents. I've met Keltie's parents only briefly last summer, and they seemed nice enough, and while I could have stayed behind and spent Christmas boozing with Gabe, I chose not to. This year, it's different, and I thought I actually might stuff my face with turkey for once. Sit at that table and not feel like a freak.

Brendon better not disappear while I'm gone. He better not take the opportunity to vanish, grab Shane by the sleeve, get into that shitty van and run for it. God, he- He wouldn't, would he?

No. No, he wouldn't. He's settled here. William's visiting. I'm paranoid for no reason when I don't need to be, and after all... he'll probably be waiting to hear of my return. He'll lie there at night next to Shane, sleepless and anxious, staring at the ceiling, thinking of me. He can't help it. He's starting to get that.

Good.

It's still mildly disconcerting that Gabe can take one look at me and see that something's up. It must be the drugs. Nothing's up. Nothing, except for how the world is an amazing place, how it is great to be alive today, and fuck, I'm glad I haven't died yet.

"Well, there's one," Eric says, voice full of disinterest.

"It'll do!" Gabe says, grabbing my sleeve and walking me through a door, and I expect to find myself in a bar, my throat feeling dry and excited at the thought of a drink, but it's just a restaurant. My stomach grumbles, however, at the smell of garlic and basil whiffing in the air, and a waitress is already showing us to a booth. The vinyl squeaks when we sit down, Eric opposite Gabe and I. "Ryan?" Gabe asks from next to me. He's giving me a devilish grin. "You paying?"

I shrug. "Sure."

"Score," he says, wiggles his eyebrows, opens the menu and asks if anyone else wants some cheesy garlic bread.

"The state of the music industry today," Eric says, elbows on the table as he leans over conspiratorially, and he seeks eye contact with me, which I grant. His mouth is moving, I'm nodding, but I hear nothing. "And if we look at the quarterly sales –"

"I want a glass of sangria! Ry? Eric?"

"– after the tax reductions, and cassette sales are on the up, you know. Cassettes aren't going anywhere, let me tell you –"

"They don't have sangria. Is it Italian?"

"There is some talk of _portable_ cassette players, Ryan. Imagine that!"

"Is it Spanish, then?"

"Being able to – I don't know! Sit on a bus and listen to music!"

"Pizza or pasta? Pasta or pizza? Toss a coin? Anybody got a coin?"

"Hey and welcome to Luigi's," a voice cuts through the noise scratching at my ears, and I feel my insides dropping like I'm on a rollercoaster ride that's taken an abrupt dip downwards. I've been slouching in the booth, stuck between the wall and Gabe, but I instantly make a valiant effort to sit up straighter though that's all it ends up being, really – an effort. I stare and I don't need a mirror to know that I'm looking at him wide-eyed and stunned, mouth hanging open.

No one's noticed. Not even him. He adds, "My name's Brendon, and I'll be your waiter today." He's speaking into his notepad in a bored and rehearsed manner, though he flashes a quick smile to our general direction. He's wearing a smart looking black button shirt with a red _Luigi's_ logo over his heart, accompanied by a small, smiling man holding a pizza with a victorious grin. He's got a nominal burgundy apron around his waist, matching the interior of the restaurant. I didn't care to even take the place in when we first arrived – it's just a standard Italian restaurant somewhere in Brooklyn, nothing fancy, not exactly a dump either. The beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip are now gone, and he looks well groomed and, well – like a waiter. Except that I cannot wrap my mind around him as one. "Can I get you anything to drink?" he enquires.

"Yeah, could I get a double vodka and Coke, easy on the Coke?" Gabe is so into his efforts of not totally coming down from his high that he hasn't noticed Brendon yet.

"Sure thing," Brendon says, scribbles something onto the notepad and looks up.

I want the ground to swallow me whole the second he spots me, eyes widening and instantly flying over Eric and Gabe, and then back to me. He doesn't say anything, doesn't jump back or as much as flinch, but this look suddenly clouds his face, and his pupils narrow down into tiny black dots boring into me. His left eyebrow twitches, and my mouth is still open but nothing smart is coming out.

"Um. Hi," I manage, and my companions stop to look up from their menus.

"Oh," Gabe now says. He looks pleasantly surprised. "Hey, Bren! Wow, you –"

"Hi," Brendon says, speaking to me directly, and his tone is icy.

"We just stumbled in for lunch," I explain, like that's not obvious anyway, seeing as we're sitting in the booth with menus open. Eric is looking at Brendon like he's desperately trying to place him but can't quite figure out where. Gabe's got a shit-eating grin on his face, and I end up trying to stomp his foot under the table in order for him to _stop_.

"Sure," Brendon says, and it's so even that it cannot be a good sign. His face suddenly is overtaken by cold professionalism. "So. Anything to drink?"

"I'll have a glass of the house red and some still water, please," Eric says, and Brendon again makes a note.

"And you, Ryan?" He looks at me calmly, but the skin around his mouth looks like it's been stretched thin. For some fucked up reason, I want to get up and leave.

"I'm good."

"You don't want anything to drink?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes," I say through gritted teeth, hanging my head and feeling my pockets for a cigarette. Brendon walks off without another word, and Gabe is elbowing me in the ribs in some sort of 'Look who it is, eh? Eh?' gesture, and I ignore him and inhale smoke deep into my lungs. I then feel my pockets for my loyal G.R.R. III, but the flask is not there. I must have forgotten it at home. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Where do I know him from?" Eric says, voice searching.

"Shane's roommate," I supply emptily.

"Oh yeah!"

"Ryan's former busmate," Gabe adds, and Eric frowns but then just turns to the menu. Right now, Gabe needs to shut the hell up.

Eric mumbles to himself as he peers at the menu, and Gabe tries to engage me in a hushed conversation that he attempts to start with a wink and, "How about a quickie in the toilets with the hot waiter, huh?" I ignore them both and wish I had booze. I can't believe this. It was luck that we met at Eric's party, and I appreciate it, but I think I've had enough of it now. Out of all the fucking stupid restaurants...

The sadistic cherubs must be rolling around laughing on their pillowy clouds, baby fat cushioning the impact. I was kind of getting there. I was too, the other day at the practice space... And I've tried so hard to make him at least semi-happy, but now the advancement has clearly gotten nuked.

"You guys ready to order?" Brendon asks when he comes back, setting down the guys' drinks. His voice is heavy with sarcasm. It's practically dribbling down his chin whenever he speaks, and he's keeping his head held high like he's got nothing to be ashamed of. I never said there was, did I? Just that this was a waste of his talent. That's all. Eric goes for a pizza of some kind. Gabe makes innuendo jokes about salami before ordering a pizza too. Gabe isn't trying to flirt with Brendon, not really because Gabe wouldn't openly flirt with guys if someone like Eric might witness it, but Gabe is trying to be suave and get something across, and I can see the moment when it hits home because sparks of anger flicker in Brendon's eyes and he looks momentarily embarrassed. That Gabe knows. That it's obvious I've told Gabe that I used to sleep with him.

Brendon can be angry and pissed off and mad and any other synonym, but I don't – I don't want him to be embarrassed by it. We had a good thing. Didn't we? Kind of. It was working for me, anyway. It wasn't perfect, but it's not like it's worth feeling humiliated about. I never humiliated him.

"I don't want anything, thanks," I say because he's now waiting for me.

He quirks an eyebrow. "You came in for lunch but don't want anything to eat?"

"No. I'm fine."

"Suit yourself," he practically snaps, and his eyes quickly dart to the side where a middle-aged man in a similar uniform is looking at Brendon suspiciously, twirling the left tip of his black moustache. Brendon wavers and ducks his head in what looks like submission. "I'll be back with the order shortly."

I nervously flick my cigarette above the ashtray, heart racing. I know what he's thinking. Actually, I don't have the faintest idea as to what he's thinking, but it's not anything good, that's for sure. Gabe's finally silenced, maybe sensing that now is not a good time to be smart. Eric looks bored because he doesn't want to converse with Gabe and I'm being anti-social. I watch Brendon make his way around the restaurant, and he's persistently not looking our way, but there's something hurt in the way he walks. I did that.

"Fuck," I sigh, grab Gabe's drink and gulp it down. I run fingers through my hair. "Fuck."

Eric asks, "What's your problem?"

"None of your business," I snap moodily. Something's expanding in my chest painfully, pushing against my ribs and giving me a headache. "Gabe, move."

Gabe does, and I exit the booth, shoes hitting the cheap linoleum floor. Brendon's on his way to the kitchen, carrying heavy looking plates, and I reach the doors when he does. "Bren, look," I say, blocking his way, and he stops, balancing dirty places with surprising skill.

"I'm working," he says, and the way he says it, spitting it out, is as good as him telling me to fuck off. He passes me and enters the kitchen, the double doors swinging. I follow without a second's hesitation, feeling the temperature rise in the kitchen that's full of clanging from pots and pans.

"You're pissed off," I say, following him in the busy mess of chefs.

"No, really?" he asks, and I don't need to see his face to imagine the deathly glare he'd want to give me.

"I didn't mean to upset you, alright?" I say, which is as much of an apology as he's going to get out of me. I don't _need_ to apologise when I've done nothing, but I'll humour him this once. He just needs to relax and go back to smiling at me already. It's nice seeing him. I didn't think we would see each other again before the holidays, so this is nice, and he should smile and talk and laugh. Goddammit, I haven't been suffering just to lose him now for something this stupid.

Brendon puts the plates down on a table with towering heaps of dirty dishes, and he glances at me over his shoulder. "You can't be here."

"Look, we just walked in, alright? I didn't know, and had I known, I really wouldn't have come."

"Yeah. This is just a coincidence. Like the party and the exhibition and the ice rink and the mic night –"

"I've told you that I came to see you play," I say through gritted teeth, finding his attack wholly unfair. "And the last time I checked, it was a damn good thing that I came too and dragged Ian out of there with you! And as for the others, well fuck! What do you want me to say? That I've gone out of my way to see you?" I hold my breath, mind buzzing. He looks surprisingly wide-eyed. "If I said that I've been trying to see you, then what?" My eyes are drawn to his lips automatically, and he parts them like he wants to say something but has forgotten what. A part of my brain is telling me that I'm making a scene for a damn waiter somewhere in Brooklyn, but then it's him, it's Brendon, and that changes all the rules. I can hear the thumping of my heart from the rush of blood and adrenalin, and maybe if I pulled him aside right now, kissed him until he got it.

"You still didn't have to come to my workplace to mock me," he hisses, and the way he chooses not to acknowledge what I just said feels like an arrow piercing my side.

"I'm not mocking you," I say tiredly, realising that this is not it. Whatever I'm waiting for. A bit of hope. It feels like a stalemate, and he looks indignant and closed off, angry at me for what appears to be paranoia on his part, that I take enjoyment in his misery, and I don't know what I'm even trying to achieve here anymore. "Goddammit, Brendon," I breathe out, rubbing my face with one hand. "I don't know what you want."

"What makes you think I want anything?"

Easy. Your smile. The way you fucking smile and the way your shoulders tense up when I'm close and the way I'm circling you and you know it, you fucking know it but aren't running away. The way you shift restlessly if I stare for too long, when I can almost taste your skin, distant memories fresh on my mind, and the way your eyes sparkle when I say something remotely funny. But you keep knocking me down and pulling me back up, and you want something. I might not know exactly what it is, but I've got a few ideas.

I don't say any of this, though, because he'd be too quick to deny it, realise that he's been letting himself slip, and that'd be it. My window of opportunity gone.

Someone rings a small bell. "Bren, table five's ready!"

He looks startled and worried and stressed out. "I've got work to do."

"I've done nothing wrong here," I tell him persistently. "Brendon, for fuck's sake."

"Just leave," he requests just as someone calls out his name boomingly and clearly unhappily. He glances a look over my shoulder, almost like he's afraid of everything right now, including me. And the world's a shitty place, we both know that, but I'm one thing he should not feel threatened by. We're on the same side, but he just doesn't seem to get that.

"Well, tell me what it is that you think I've done wrong! Don't leave me in the dark here!" I snap angrily. I'll drive myself insane with this otherwise, if it's just his pride again, or if he thinks I really want to humiliate him, or if I said too much, or all of the above. I can't fix it if I don't know.

He seems to think about it for a second before he shakes his head a little, face void of laughter, eyes full of something solemn and almost sad. "I just thought you'd changed. That's all."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I enquire, but he doesn't reply, just pushes past me and gets back to work. A chef is looking at me suspiciously, and I fret nervously, confused and irritated. "What the hell does that mean?" I call out louder, but with no effect.

Instead of making my way back to my party, I shove a tomato chopping kid out of the way, leaving Brendon to balance full plates onto his arms, to wait on fucking ugly bastards with heart diseases and swollen up bowels full of fat, and fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, and I march across the restaurant, my spine drawn up so tight that it might break in two, and I storm out of the place, because I will not sit there and let him play with me, I will not stand for it, and did he just –

I stop in a street corner and take in a deep breath. The East River is glistening in bright afternoon sunshine, a glimpse of it visible in the distance from between two buildings.

Just wait a few hours, just wait, and this afternoon will be gone with all of its shit, slipping off the horizon along with the sun.

If only it was that easy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Under Your Skin**

I've never bought anyone flowers, and I'm not starting now, even if the roses on the other side of the display window do cross my mind for a second. I'm not buying a _guy_ flowers. I will, however, go back to that fucking restaurant and make up with him. Say that we had a disagreement for no real reason. Because going there will prove that I'm different.

It's hard to detect change when time doesn't stop. There are no actual chapters in life, and yeah, I can look back and think that I'm different, but when the change occurred or how it came about aren't as easy to answer. Change is gradual. And I don't know what parts of me have transformed into something else, but I'm pretty sure that a few years back I wouldn't have gone to try and make up. Maybe he'll know that. But I'm not going to grovel. I'll simply go in and say my piece – sorry about yesterday, didn't mean to cause a scene at your work, I couldn't really sleep with things between us being as they are, so you know, here I am, and now I'm going, happy holidays.

Keep it concise.

If I left it until later, he'd get weeks to brew his resentment. This way he can think about how sorry I seemed instead of how I yelled at him in the kitchen. It's got to be worth something, though I know that it's a long shot, that tonight might be Brendon's night off, but at least I can ask if he'll have more shifts before I fly to Canada. Or maybe write a letter. I should really find out where he lives.

The restaurant is still there, a smiling fat Italian guy painted on one of the windows – Luigi, I suppose. Whereas yesterday was sunny, today is not, and wet snow keeps falling on me from the darkening sky. I shake it off and check my reflection in the restaurant window before walking in, my eyes adjusting to the darker setting with a few blinks. A brunette waitress spots me, navigating between tables and smiling at me. "Hi! Table for one?"

"Is Brendon working today?" I ask and look over her shoulder, but I don't see him. When my eyes find hers, she looks tensed up. "What?"

"He. Um." She shifts restlessly. "He doesn't work here anymore."

Well, she's a fucking liar. Brendon probably put her up to this. "He does. I came here yesterday and he was here, so." I put as much authority as I can into my words.

She scratches her cheek with one finger, looking uncomfortable. "He got fired. Like an hour ago."

"Fired?" I repeat, and she nods. "_Fired_ fired?" Another affirmative. Her cheeks redden like the memory is still too fresh on her mind and is making her embarrassed for everyone involved. I wonder if there was a scene. Brendon _would_ cause a scene.

"You still coming in to eat?" she asks cheerfully, clearly keen to change the subject.

"No. Thanks." The speech I had prepared has magically vanished. What the hell did he do to get fired? He seemed like an alright waiter. He was standing there, full of an honest job's arrogance, like he had no problem waiting on tables – in general, of course, because he sure as hell was pissed off that we had come. And now this?

I give the girl a parting nod and turn back around, not sure what to do. "Hey," she calls after me, and I look at her in hopes of another grain of information or gossip or hearsay. "There's a bar on Poplar Street, called Seven Horses. Try there." She shrugs a little. "Brendon could probably do with a bit of cheering up."

"Sure. Thanks."

As I leave, her eyes widen like at that precise moment she recognises me, but by then it's too late.

A Santa is walking on the street outside, ho ho hoing, and a little boy runs up to him with stars in his eyes like it's the real deal. I intend to walk straight to the subway and go home, but I don't. Instead I walk around, making no conscious decision at all except for how I know that I do, and then a street sign tells me I'm on Poplar Street. I look left and right, figure it doesn't make a fucking difference because a needle in a haystack is always a needle in a haystack, and it doesn't matter if you flip the haystack around.

Seven Horses, it turns out, was in the opposite direction to where I initially headed, but twenty minutes later it's there in front of me, with a dark green facade and a painted horse's head on the sign hanging above the door. It looks like it's trying to be an imitation of an English or Irish or Scottish pub, but Americans never get it right. The bars lack the native people, for one thing, which means they don't have a tenth of the authentic atmosphere. I've certainly spent enough time in London pubs to know that.

The bar is mostly dead. A jukebox stands in the corner, and a forlorn looking guy with a huge beard is going through his pockets for coins. The dark oak furniture looks dusty and the lamps hang too low from the ceiling, and I walk over to the bar where a Union Jack has been nailed to the wall and is miserably hanging behind the bartender, who immediately smiles at me like he's the only one left to keep the spirits up.

"What can I get you?" he asks. I look around the bar and towards the back and – There. Alone in a small booth, leaning over the table like gravity's pulling him down, shoulders slumped. There.

"A beer. No, make it two."

I dangle the bottles between my fingers as I make my way over, hearing the jukebox come to life and a sad blues song crackling through the bar. "Mind if I sit here?" I ask, and Brendon lifts his head a bit too abruptly. Three empty glasses stand on his table. He's got a head start for sure.

"What are you doing here?" he asks groggily like he's just woken up, and he even blinks too much to heighten the impression.

"This girl at the restaurant said you'd be here."

"Oh."

I patiently count to three in my head. "So. May I?"

He jerks a little like he's only now processing my words. "Sure. Yeah." He motions at the other side of the booth, and whereas Luigi's had vinyl seats, these booths are wooden.

I sit down across from him and offer him the other bottle. He takes it with a small smile, and I bring my own to my lips. "A bad day?"

He laughs, resting the bottle's mouth against his lips. "You could say that." He takes a sip and catches the residue on his lips with his tongue. It leaves his lower lip shiny. He probably knows that I've heard the news – well, of course he does – and he shakes his head and heaves a sigh. "Bastard, that guy. Tony. A fucking bastard."

"Did he, uh..." I start, leaning back in the booth and unbuttoning my jacket. His eyes follow my fingers, and I forgot what I meant to say. I quickly pull my arms out of the sleeves and then lean back in, elbows on the table. "Did he find out about Shane, then?"

"Shane?" he asks, tasting the word on his tongue like it's foreign to him.

"Roommate. Not roommate."

His eyes widen in realisation, and he ducks his head. Hair falls out of place, and my fingers itch, and I look over to the barkeep, wonder if he'd notice if I reached out, if the guy by the jukebox would, if the few other bored looking men lingering at the bar would. But they all seem lost in their own thoughts, and no one is paying attention to Brendon and me. I let my hand move forward an inch and hover in the air, and then I pull it back and focus on holding my beer.

"No," he then says and looks back up. "Nothing to do with that. This time." He sounds just as angry as he did some years ago when he recalled the jobs he had lost because of rumours that he was a faggot. He rubs his face and grimaces slightly, unpleasant memories clearly flashing through his mind. "I was just late. Again."

"That's it?"

He takes in a deep breath. "And then I told a customer to stuff the spaghetti and meatballs up his ass." He finishes half the bottle in one swig. I try to keep my face straight but clearly fail because when he puts the bottle down, he glances at me and says, "It's not funny."

"No. It's not." My voice is full of barely hidden laughter, and he shoots me a glare, but the corners of his eyes are wrinkling.

"It's very serious."

"It is. I'm sure."

He breaks into a grin, fingers nervously picking at the bottle's label, and I let myself laugh. Back when we were trying to get the band going in LA, I never held onto a job for very long, but I certainly never lost one for something like that.

"The asshole kept talking to me like I was his servant or some shit," he now says in his defence, and the smile fades slightly.

"Yeah," I say, my laughter dying out. It must have hurt. Not that he says it, but something about the situation clearly touched a nerve. That and a bad day, and the older version of Brendon rears its head, the one that felt free to tell pretty much anyone to go fuck themselves, me included. Brendon doesn't seem to think it's an accomplishment, though.

He sighs. "I really needed that fucking job."

"New York's full of jobs."

"Yeah, but I –" He looks up. "What were you doing there?" It seems like it's only occurred to him now that my presence can be considered a bit odd.

"Came to apologise for yesterday," I say honestly, without pausing to think about it, without hesitating or considering possible lies. I think I'm more surprised than he looks. "I just." It feels like something's stuck to my throat, and I try to swallow it down. "I didn't want to leave things like that."

"Who remembers yesterday anymore, right?" he asks and finishes the bottle. I remember yesterday. He does too. And the day before that and the day before that to all the days, to things like him, Jon and Jon's bandmates playing poker in a hotel room or him sucking me off for the first time in the back of the tour bus, my hips bucking pathetically like I'd never been blown before. And then a snap of your fingers and it's all gone, transforming from something that happened to you into a memory, but I know we both still remember. There were times when I wished I didn't. Right now isn't one of those times. Right now, I feel like I'm back to controlling this thing with him and me. "Besides," he then says, "I've got this whole unemployed thing to think about now." He's eyeing my beer bottle wistfully.

"How about I get us a bottle of whiskey?"

He looks at me, wide-eyed, in some fucked up way reminiscent of the way he looked in the middle of sex sometimes, when I pushed in deeper and he didn't realise I wasn't in all the way yet. A sudden awareness washes over me, putting back something shattered inside.

"Yeah," he then says, voice lower than before. "Whiskey'd be great." He smiles and then digs out a pack of cigarettes.

When I come back with a bottle and two glasses, he's humming along to The Beatles song coming from the jukebox. The cigarette moves up and down between his lips, and I fill our glasses, trying to keep my hand from shaking. Like I'm nervous. No, not nervous. Just excited, maybe. Anxious. Impatient. Victorious.

He quietly sings, "There's no one that compares to you," takes the cigarette from his lips and offers it to me with a quirked eyebrow.

"Thanks," I say, taking it to my lips. Exchanging saliva.

"Bottoms up," he says and drinks all the whiskey in one go. He moves further into the booth until his back is resting against the wall, and he brings his feet up onto the seat, resting his arms against his knees. He laughs at nothing, it seems, his head rolling to the side, hair falling in front of his eyes, and he looks at me with a smile. It's not warmth but fucking fire that scorches at my insides, and I have to breathe faster because I'm not getting enough oxygen, but I smile back a little – not too much and not a full blown grin. Try not to show all of it. Let him do the fucking guessing for once.

"I was hoping for a Christmas bonus," he says and snorts. "Can say bye to that, right?" He extends the glass my way, and I fill it up. "Fuck. Fuck, Shane's going to be pissed." He drinks it all on the first and coughs for a second.

"Were you happy there?" I ask, still smoking his cigarette.

"No."

"Then he should be happy for you."

Brendon laughs like I just made a joke. Shane lacks vision, which is ironic considering that he's trying to be a director. But he lacks vision when it comes to Brendon. Fuck, this guy could be anything he chooses, and Shane doesn't get that. If he thinks Brendon's better off as a waiter, then fuck him.

Maybe Brendon senses my thoughts, maybe not, but he says, "Christmas is just an expensive time of the year." It sounds final, like he doesn't want to say anything more on it, and I really don't feel like talking about his boyfriend either. No, right now Shane is the one topic that I need to make Brendon forget. That Shane even exists. I'll be damned if I let the mere fact of Shane's existence ruin this for me.

I let him drink and smoke excessively, and I drink and I smoke, but not too much. After all these years of alcohol, it takes a lot to get me drunk. Brendon, well, he's kind of drunk. He's getting drunker. But he's laughing and talking and motioning with his hands, and he bums quarters off of me and goes to the jukebox and comes back with sparkling eyes and says that he loves this song, and it's ABBA, and he tells me not to judge, and I lift my hands and say that I didn't say anything and that my girlfriend's a major ABBA lover, so really, I don't judge.

"Keltie," he says, nods, and takes a deep drag. "You love her?"

Yeah. He's definitely drunk. "Of course I do," I say automatically, then regret ever mentioning her. I need to make her evaporate too, until it's just me and Brendon, and that makes us free, that gives us the right to do whatever we feel like is right for us. Not for anyone else.

"You must have changed," he says, and I wonder if that's what he meant yesterday, if he was referring to my capacity to feel for others. Lust, envy, dislike, love. Maybe just love. And for a second my insides feel frozen, and he seems to understand through his alcoholic haze that his words might sound like he's referring to. Well. Us. "The, uh," he says, laughs, motions vaguely with his hand. "You just once told me that, that you don't love."

"When have I ever said that?"

"I don't remember. But you did. And I believed you, for what it's worth. In the end, I believed you." He tries to take another sip, but his glass is empty.

"Love is a human condition. No one can escape it."

He shrugs, now fiddling with his dying lighter. His brows knit together, and sparks ignite but a flame doesn't emerge, and I lean over the table and flick my own lighter. He takes my hand, pulling it close to his mouth where his cigarette is waiting, the hardened tips of his fingers sliding across the back of my hand where bluish veins circuit under the pale skin. His cigarette lights up. I lift my thumb, and the flame dies. He's not looking at the cigarette. He's not looking me in the eyes. I lick my lower lip, and he exhales shakily, eyes still on my mouth. He looks like his world has slowed down. He'd hide it a lot better sober.

I sit back down, the lighter still in my fist as my arm lowers, my hand resting on the table. His hand is still holding mine, and then he jerks. "Sorry," he says, voice rough, and removes his hand, warm against my own, little electric pulses dancing over my skin. We've drunk half the bottle. Well, he has, mostly.

"You look good these days," I tell him.

His cheeks look redder and his pupils wider, and he bites on his lower lip, worrying the flesh with his teeth until it's puffy and shiny. He's no idea how fucking seductive that is.

"You too," he says, and he casts a quick look my way, as if to read my reaction.

I let myself smile at the compliment and pour myself another. "So. Looking forward to David's new album? Coming out next month."

"God, yes," he says and gets into it, and he's got a way to him. It can't be explained, but he's got charisma, even now, and I stop giving a fuck and let myself get pulled into the conversation about music because it's my passion in life as well as his. And when he's passionate about something, he's even more beautiful. He kicks my feet under the table when I say that _Station to Station_ didn't impress me much, calling me obnoxious and arrogant, and I tell him that the new album's got a lot more depth, which I know because I've heard it already.

"Contacts," I shrug.

"Fucker," he says through a grin, and our hands are on the table, an inch between our fingers. We keep sharing cigarettes. We don't have to; we've both got our own.

After a good while – a damn good while, I've lost track of time, but the ashtray's full – he says, "I might be a bit too drunk." He looks at me and laughs.

"That's no good," I smirk. I pass him the cigarette, blowing smoke through my lips. I watch his face through the haze, feeling something in me expand. I've been worrying for nothing. I've been driving myself insane for nothing. "I remember this one time you came to my hotel room drunk out of your head. We were meant to fuck, but you ended up puking in the bathroom instead."

His cheeks get coloured crimson, but he smiles down at the table. "Not one of my finest moments." He takes in a deep breath. "Fuck, that summer..." His middle finger brushes mine, and I move my hand closer, letting the tips of our fingers lace together. He doesn't say anything of it. Neither do I, even if I feel his warmth all the way to my bones. He smokes the cigarette with his free hand, then stubs it out. His thumb brushes the side of my forefinger. He doesn't seem to be aware of it until he is, and tension sets into his shoulders but he doesn't move his hand.

"We should get out of here," I tell him, and he starts slightly. I pull my hand back, his touch vanishing and my insides protesting the sudden loss as I point upwards with my forefinger. "Playing Sonny & Cher. Whenever a place starts playing this shit, you know it's time to go."

He eyes the whiskey bottle, a quarter of it left. "Yeah." He breathes in unevenly, and something's buzzing under his skin. "Okay."

I feel the weight of the alcohol when I stand up, but I manage to move gracefully, or at least I think I'm graceful. I get my jacket on, and Brendon's standing up too but struggling with his own, like he doesn't remember how buttons work anymore.

"C'mere," I grin, grab the collar and pull him over. He matches my grin and his pupils look blown, blown, blown, and I can smell him, shampoo or cologne or something, and he keeps looking at me like he's never seen me before. I button his jacket for him, starting from the top, over his chest, down his stomach, the last one at his crotch. He stays astoundingly still for someone who's as drunk as he is. I let my hands fall to the sides and nod towards the door. Sign language. It takes him a moment to register the gesture, but he nods, cheeks rosier, eyes dark, and I lift a hand towards the bartender as a goodbye.

It's stopped snowing and the sun has set, but the streetlights compete with the darkening twilight. I start walking to the direction I came from, my steps slower than slow, and Brendon walks next to me, our feet trampling snow that's already been trampled. The street is less busy than before because the stores are closed, but we don't stand out in the midst of people who probably should be home by now. "Huh," he says, for whatever reason, and he stumbles a little.

"You alright?" I ask, steadying him with a hand to his shoulder. We stop in the corner, and he does a shaky nod, stepping closer to me. My hand slides to the side of his neck. His skin is warm. His breaths are shallow, and he seems overly aware of everything.

He asks, "What time is it?"

"Eight. Nine. Not late yet." My thumb rests on a vein on his neck, and I can feel his pulse, rapid and feverish.

"Shane's finished his shift at Eric's, then." He pulls in cold air and then smiles to himself drunkenly. "He'll be at the gallery now."

"Not waiting for you at home."

"No."

He's standing close to me, waiting. I can sense it. See it in his eyes. That he's waiting.

A taxi's coming down the street, a spot of yellow amongst the sandstone background, and I step to the side of the street and put my arm up. The taxi comes to a stop next to us. "You live far from here?" I ask, and he shakes his head. I can still feel his skin against my palm, the way it fucking radiated, practically saying it's mine. I take in a calming breath. "You got money for the taxi?" He looks confused, and I open the backdoor. "I'm gonna take the subway back, so you can take this one. You're too drunk to walk home."

His confusion clears off quickly, though not very well in his state. "Yeah, uh. Sure. I mean." He looks at the taxi as if seeing it for the first time, then he looks at me, startled, and then he kicks into motion and gets in. Even in the backseat he looks befuddled, but he's clearly trying damn hard to sober up a bit. The invitation is still there in his eyes, and he looks at my lips rather than my eyes. "Um. Thanks."

"Get home safe," I say and close the door. The taxi takes off instantly, heading down the street, and my hands are sweating and my heart is hammering and my skin feels electric, and I get out my last cigarette with a trembling hand, light it, and smoke the entire thing in the space of a minute, slowly calming down.

The hardest thing I've ever done.

Plant a seed. Watch it grow.

I start looking for a subway station, trying not to grin.

Two days. Forty-eight hours. Or less, really, because it's in the afternoon that I become aware of the knocking on my door. I only hear it because the record comes to an end, the needle lifting with a static sound, and the living room grows quiet once more. My suitcase's open on the couch that Ian slept on that one time, an oddly shaped present on top of everything that I've thrown in. It's something for Keltie's mother. I forget what it is.

But then the knock is there, and I try to fix my hair that's still wet from a shower. I grab the first shirt that's on top of the suitcase, sliding it on as I make my way to the door. Forty-one hours, maybe? Time has ceased to matter lately. If it's Gabe, I'll punch him, because forty-one hours of patience isn't easy. I've spent a month being patient, but the past few days have been the hardest.

The knock sounds melodic, like it's following a pattern or a tune that ends up indistinguishable, and I let my shirt hang open in case it _is_ Gabe, let him see a slice of the body that he most certainly will never have.

I open the door.

It finally clicks into place. Everything.

"Um. Hi," Brendon says, standing there, looking terrified like a mouse about to step into a trap, and he's beautiful. He's here. His eyes fly up and down my form. "Is – Is this a bad time?"

"No. God, not at all." I open the door further and motion him to step in.

He's got his red scarf in his hands, knuckles white around the thick cotton. He clears his throat, like he's trying to keep a professional line. I close the door after him and do one button above my navel, the plain white dress shirt hanging on me though it's a perfect fit at the shoulders. He looks at my bare feet and black jeans, and I say, "Just got out of a shower."

His eyes linger at my neck, but he says nothing about the chain. Instead he says, "Huh." He swallows hard and averts his gaze. "I came to pick up Shane's camera. The one he forgot in the practice room. Jon told him you brought it back here." His voice is searching like he wants me to confirm all of this, and I do with a nod.

"Shane said he'd pick it up," I say as I lead us to the living room.

"I was in the neighbourhood."

"Oh."

My living room looks like it's been hit by a hurricane, the floor littered by records out of their sleeves, shiny black discs everywhere, a few broken. The suitcase is overflowing with clothes, and the ones I've discarded are now on the floor and any near-by furniture, surrounded by empty liquor bottles, dirty glasses, full ashtrays, a stash of weed on the coffee table, and I really should have cleaned up.

"A bit messier than last time," he observes. Yeah. Clearly Keltie hasn't visited in a while and called up that cleaning service again.

"The camera's somewhere in here," I say and then just stand still, no idea where to start looking. I have a feeling it's by the TV and the windows, but why bother looking for it when Brendon's not here for it? Because I know why he's here, and it's not for Shane's camera. He fidgets, but his pupils look blown when he looks at me.

"Look, I was kind of drunk the other night –" he starts, and I instantly cut him off with, "Hey, it happens. Don't worry about it." I look at him and smile calmly. "You didn't dance on tables in case you were worried."

He laughs embarrassedly and lifts his eyebrows like he wouldn't be surprised if he had. "Yeah..."

"You want a beer?"

He looks like I've asked something a lot more complicated than that. And I have. "Yeah. Thanks."

I take him in, standing in my living room, two buttons of his winter coat undone, scarf now in one fist. He looks like he feels out of place, and there's something to his features, something that's got him wound up.

"This way," I say simply. I nod towards the kitchen, and he drops his red scarf on the couch and follows. He slowly unbuttons his coat, and I press my fingernails into my palms to keep my hands where they are. The way he looks, self-conscious, might as well think he's taking all of his clothes off. He leaves the coat hanging from the back of one of the dining chairs, and he keeps looking around nervously, like he's not sure if he's done a stupid thing coming here. He hasn't.

My eyes fly over his form: black slacks, black dress shirt and a black tie. He's either heading to a funeral or, "Job hunting?" I ask, and he flinches, nods, leans against the kitchen doorway. "How's it going?"

"It's going," he says. "Or. Well, I haven't started yet. Decided to drop by here first."

I wonder how long he stood opposite the building, talking himself out of this when it was already too late. I open the fridge door and look at its almost gaping emptiness. "Miller or Coors?"

"Coors."

With every word he says, my pulse picks up. It's surreal, this moment, even if I knew it had to happen, it had to or else I would've – But I try to remain calm. Breathe.

I get out two bottles, rummaging the cabinets for a bottle opener for embarrassingly long, handing him the other bottle when I join him. He's leaning against the doorframe, not that there is an actual door, just an open archway that links the dining room to the kitchen that I hardly ever use. I stay opposite him, letting my back lean against the wall structure. My toes almost touch his shoes.

He's pale, eyes a bit scared. God, he doesn't need to be scared. I've got it from here.

We drink our beers quietly, and he clearly doesn't know where to look. Kitchen floor. Dining room table. The radio on the windowsill. Into the living room. He saw the suitcase but didn't ask. I could tell him if he asked. Tomorrow morning. Flying out. Meeting Keltie at the airport. I could tell him.

I finish my beer quickly, without either one of us having said a word. And now. Now it's time.

He takes a sip as I step closer. His posture immediately goes rigid. He stands up straighter, but he's still shorter than me. His eyelashes are dark against his skin, his full bottom lip moistened by the beer. I reach out to the counter on his side and put my bottle down, using it as an excuse to take another step. My knee touches his. He doesn't move. His breathing fills the air between us, shallow, dragged. His beer bottle is still between us, and I reach out to take it. He loosens his hold, and I look him in the eyes. He's starting to look a bit flushed.

I knock down the rest of his beer and place the bottle next to mine. He shifts, like this limbo is killing him, and he brushes against me, legs and crotch, and I place a hand on his hip. He stills. Doesn't say anything. Ducks his head, like he's just going to focus on breathing.

I lean close, right into his space, until my nose touches his cheek. His breaths wash against my lips, so close I can almost taste him, and I try to hold back what could be a whine. My eyes close, and I must be bruising his hip with my too firm hold but he doesn't say anything. The tip of my nose slides across his cheek, to his hair, and my body feels like it's been wound up so tight, so fucking tight, and I breathe him in, my cock hardening from his scent alone.

I swallow hard. Try to think. Can't. My hands are shaking, my heart feels like it's on a suicide mission to die from overheating, and warmth spreads to every cell in my body. He tilts his head towards me, his wet lips briefly making contact with my cheek.

I swallow hard before I whisper, "I'm not going to kiss you."

He jerks, a gush of air hitting my cheek. There's a lull, a momentary silence of neither one of us moving, and then he says, "Don't you – Because of her, you don't?" He sounds confused. Breathless.

"That's not what I said." I push my hips closer until they're pressed to his. He lets out a surprised groan. The pressure against my crotch lets me properly feel how fucking hard I am, and he must feel it too. Blood pounds in my ears and I try to remain still. "I said that _I'm_ not going to kiss you."

I turn my head, look at him. He's staring at me, pupils blown, mouth shiny, cheeks rosy. His eyes focus on my mouth. "I can't," he whispers, breathing hard, and then he kicks into motion.

He fists my hair and pulls me in, our mouths crashing, and it erupts in my chest, all of it, his taste, his hands, his touch. He kisses me hard, full of want, and I grip his hips hungrily. My mouth opens up, and our tongues meet, wet and hot. He tastes like beer and he tastes like him, and I feel like I'm right back in the backstage dressing rooms, making out with him before shows. I feel driven insane by want. He grinds up against me, frantic, and he drops one hand from my hair and slides it down my chest. The kisses are bruising and full of one thing: sex. Sex and sweat and saliva, and his nails drag downwards, making my skin flare up. "Ryan," he groans, rushed, and undoes the single button of my shirt.

"Fuck," I manage, pulling off my shirt that's in the way, in the stupid fucking way, and my fingers get tangled in his hair – soft, so soft – as I pull him closer, feeling his calloused fingertips move on my back. Our mouths are loud, ungraceful, primitive, and I stumble backwards with him, trying to navigate this thing.

It's not fast. No. Not after weeks of me thinking about this, and he's thought about it too. It's so fucking obvious that he has. And him and I, we have no reason to hold back. Pretend to take it slow, pretend we're not animals when we are. And maybe he's touched himself thinking about this. Maybe this is his fantasy coming to life. For me, this is better than any fantasy ever was: knowing how much he wants me.

I crash against a dining chair and knock it down. My hands are on his shirt, unbuttoning as fast as I can. Our mouths part with a wet pop, and he's loosening his tie, lips swollen and red, eyes full of unhidden desire. My guts tighten painfully with lust. Fuck, what took him so long?

He drops the tie just as I pull his unbuttoned shirt from his jeans, and our teeth click together when we move in for a kiss. His lips are taunting me because I've missed this, he doesn't even know how much I tried to forget him in London, Los Angeles, everywhere, then here, with guys that had full, promising looking lips that I thought, well, maybe. Maybe they'd compare.

They never did.

I swirl us around so that he's going backwards as I push us further into the living room. Something cracks and breaks between our feet – a record, fuck it – and I push him against the wall with a bang, and he groans and sucks on my lower lip. My arm's securely around his waist, pulling him to me so that I can feel him and – There: his hard cock under the denim, pressed against me. His breath sputters, eyelids slipping shut, and he presses the back of his head against the wall. We grind against each other, and I attack his neck, wanting to bruise, to mark him, bite him, taste him –

"Oh god," he breathes out, heaving. He keeps rocking against me like he's desperate to get off. I violently tug his shirt off his shoulders, pulling it off all the way, a button goes flying from the cuffs. I kiss my way back to his mouth, wet bites along his jaw line, his cologne musky and tempting. His fingers dig into my shoulder blades. He shivers, is shaking, I can feel it now. "Fuck," he breathes out. "Ryan, fuck, you just –"

I cut him off by grabbing his head with two hands, pulling on his hair as I kiss him as hard as I can. The minimalistic restraint I had is evaporating – here he is, saying my name with such want in his voice, like I always knew he would in the end. I knew no one can change that much. Because I knew him, and he knew me, and the specifics can change but the core of a person remains the same. And it's that that has brought him back to me.

I pull him off the wall, lost in the way he's touching me, like he wants to devour me. God, he's stupid for turning me on this much because I'll never let him leave now, not when he's shown just how much he wants me, like I want him. He made me nearly lose my mind for nothing.

I get us to the bedroom door in a tangled mess of hands and tongues, of me grabbing his ass, copping a feel, and he grinds against me hungrily, trapped between me and the door. The doorknob refuses to turn at first because I'm too busy kissing him to look, and he manages to toe off his shoes, constantly pushing his body against mine, offering, wanting me to touch him. The door gives way, and he almost falls backwards at first but I hold him to me securely. His arms are wrapped around my neck, our mouths sliding together, and we stumble to the bed, falling on it with our mouths locked. His teeth sink into my lip from the impact, and I taste blood but don't care.

I go for his pants as he goes for my jeans, our hands knocking together, blocking, in the way. I just want him naked beneath me, want to see him exposed. He moans against my mouth as I try to tuck his pants down, having managed to unzip them, and he lifts his hips, trying to help. He's slid my jeans halfway down my ass, and we'd be naked by now if we could stop for a second to do this in an orderly fashion but we can't.

"Oh god," he gasps when his hand slides over my cock, now out of my jeans, and I feel frustrated, borderline furious with his pants but then they slide down to his knees, and I can touch him, feel him. We stop squirming for a second, gasping for air. He's leaking onto my palm, leaking _already_, and I squeeze his shaft, cup his balls, force my hand between his legs where my fingers push between his cheeks and press to the ring of muscle, tight and dry, and god, _god_. I want to fuck him, leave him slick and open and wet with my come.

"I want to fuck you so hard," I groan against his swollen lips, my body practically shuddering in anticipation.

His hand pulls on my cock, making me hiss, and his other is in my hair, tangled in the locks. "I want you to," he says, voice husky and low, and I swear against his lips, my heart skipping beats, and I kick off my jeans impatiently while he does the same to the rest of his clothes.

I grind down against his naked form and our cocks brush together, and he curses into my mouth, indistinguishable and hot. I thrust against him, his cock flat against his stomach, my cock throbbing next to his, and he's already parting his thighs, spreading his legs like a good boy, such a fucking good boy. I break our kiss, taking in his face, and he's got this look, no, _The_ Look on his face, like he needs to seduce me at this point, but he's not even doing it on purpose because there's a primal urgency to his movements – he just wants me. Me. Wants me inside him, wants me to fuck him, and fuck, fuck, fuck, the last grips that I had on reality seem to fade as I kiss him hard and get the lube out with an outstretched arm to the nightstand drawer, searching from the mix of condoms, empty wrappers and lighters and picks.

"Please," he groans, sounding far gone already. I lift myself to hover above him, and he takes the opportunity to touch my cock, moaning as he does it. Fire pools at my stomach and my cock twitches in his hand. Him sounding that hot should be forbidden. His fingertips feel hard against my heated flesh, his thumb rubbing the slit where pre-come has gathered. I can barely concentrate on my own movements, clumsily pouring lube onto my palm with only one hand and instantly reaching between our bodies to get him ready. He spreads his legs wider, and I reach between his perfect, pale cheeks, my fingers rubbing over his entrance. "Oh fuck, Ryan," he breathes out when I push a finger into him, not stopping, not waiting, going in knuckle deep. His voice is heavy with disbelief I usually didn't hear until I had two fingers in him and fucking him hard.

Half the work of taking a cock up your ass is mental, I've come to find. When a guy wants to get fucked, _really_ wants to get fucked, even a bit of spit will do and willpower will take care of the rest. And Brendon can take a cock, I know he can, but he also really, really fucking wants this right now, so prepping is just a fleeting thought in my head.

He's barely used to the first when I work in a second finger, all the while kissing him until our lips get numb. His hole feels so tight and slick, and my cock throbs in his hand, and I just want to, need to, want to feel his muscles give way for me, force myself into him. I crook my fingers as I push them in deep, and he jerks and his mouth drops open.

"Shit, shit, _shit_," he swears, hips shifting, trying to get more. He's perspiring, a hint of salt on his upper lip when we kiss. It doesn't really add up, how hard he is already, how much getting fingered is affecting him – doesn't correspond to my memories of me having to work for it, having to put an effort into driving him fucking wanton. Yeah, it's me. Obviously me and how much he fucking wants me, or then it's just the simple result of –

I crook my fingers, and his entire body convulses again, and I muffle his helpless moan with my mouth. His muscles contract, squeezing my fingers hard. "Doesn't he fuck you?" I ask, pushing my fingers in deeper. He's so tight around the two digits, so fucking tight. I push my fingers into his prostate again.

He chokes on his breath. "Ryan, please." He's trying to control his breathing, keep it levelled. He's failing. He attempts to move up on the bed whilst pushing me down from one shoulder, trying to buck up a little to get my cock where he clearly needs it.

"He doesn't," I conclude for him, torn between disbelief and contentment.

"He's ju-just been busy," he gasps out, and I watch the way beads of sweat are already rolling down his neck.

I almost laugh. Fuck, that's insane. That's a crime. I crook the fingers I have inside him, and he jerks, gasping like he'd forgotten what that feels like.

"I would _never_ be too busy to fuck you," I say. Never. I kiss him hungrily, and he groans into the kiss, his hands in my hair, hips moving to the rhythm of my fingers. And knowing what I know, I could go slow on him, get him slickened up and loose, but I won't. Can't. Want him too fucking much, and he feels it too, the urgency, the fire, I know he does.

He's taking the matter into his own hands, spreading lube on my cock, squeezing my length with slick fingers, and my fingers slip out of his hole as I choke on my breath, head spinning. I fervently grab his hips, pulling him down on the bed. His legs move to press against my sides, and both of our hands are there, mine grabbing the base of my cock as I guide it between his parted ass cheeks, and his hand at the tip, feeling me, rubbing me over him.

"God," he moans when I press the tip of my cock to his hole. He's so full of tension, so ready. "I can take it, I can –" he says feverishly, groaning and moving to bite on his hand when I add pressure. My cock is flushed and throbbing in my hand, leaking pre-come over his entrance. A steady rush of blood pounds in my ears, and it's all him, his taste, his scent, and I push forward, my swollen head against his wet hole. In one, firm push, I slide inside him, every inch of my cock pushing into him.

He's so loud. Fuck, he – And I bite his shoulder, try to muffle my groans. He feels like nothing I've ever felt. Nothing like I remembered. His muscles are resisting, grabbing onto me from all sides, so tight and so hot, and my balls ache, the skin drawn up so tight, and fuck, fuck, fuck –

"Oh god, oh fuck, that's so good, Ryan, _Ryan_ –" His back arches, and overwhelming pleasure radiates to all of my body from where we're joined. I know. God, I know, I know, I know –

I begin to fuck him, unable to stay still for longer. The back of his head presses into the pillow, and I kiss him, try to, a strand of messy saliva between our mouths as we just breathe, breathe, bodies trembling from the friction, the rhythm we get going. His ass is tight, driving me insane with how good he feels squeezing around me, how my cock pushes him open with each thrust.

"Bren," I manage, my voice thick with want. I can't shut up, moans and groans coming deep from my chest, from the core, and his hands keep pulling at me, grabbing me wherever and pulling like I'm not close enough. "You remember yet?" I ask, closing my eyes, my toes curling as I try to get deeper into him.

"I never forgot," he breathes out, overwhelmed, and I feel like I'm going to come before it's even started. Him. Brendon. Fuck, it's too much. It's not enough. I pound into him, desperate, intent on making him lose his fucking mind, and he matches me flawlessly, instantly, his hips moving to meet me. We figured it out. We had _this_ figured out, even if it was the only thing that seemed to work. But I forgot that it was like this. That it was this intense.

Brendon grabs the back of my head, and our lips crash together. He pulls on my arms, my shoulders, and then a hand slips down my back and grabs my ass, his hand possessive, and I bite on his tongue to keep my pathetically loud vocals down. The bed is creaking, sheets tangled, and as we move I feel like I'm a part of something bigger, something that's not just me. My worn out lips press kisses to his sweaty neck, biting here and there, hoping everyone in the world will see the souvenirs of this. All proof on his skin, that I was here, that he isn't complete without me. And right now, neither am I. He feels alive beneath me, his leaking cock brushing my stomach, our flushed chests touching, and I let myself fall deep, deep into it.

The sex is graceless and wanton. I press my nose to his neck, bite on his collarbone, close my eyes and keep up the rhythm of thrust, thrust, thrust, firm and hard into him. His hand moves to my lower back, trying to press me down, and he gasps a shuddered, "Oh god, god, _god_ –" when the head of my cock makes impact with the spot inside of him that tears him apart. And he's still so tight, so fucking tight, and I can't really even fathom how big my cock must feel for him. I force him open with every slide, and he moans like he can't get enough of it.

"_Ryan_. Ryan, fuck," he groans, and I have to kiss him when he says my name like that, like a seal or proof that it's me on his tongue and he can't pretend that it's not. He pulls on my hair, and he tastes me with his tongue, licking against the roof of my mouth. His hips move in a way that's beyond sinful, and I reach between us to grab his swollen cock to see how much more I can get out of him. He groans helplessly, his muscles contracting around my cock. "Oh. Oh, god."

"Jesus, Bren," I gasp, my thumb tracing a wet trail of pre-come on the sensitive underside of his cock.

"Please. Please, I need to get off," he groans. Puffs of hot air wash against my lips, and he pulls on my hair almost painfully. "Can't stand how good you feel, how fucking good –" I push in fucking hard, and a moan breaks him off, his back arching. I wrap my fingers around the head of his cock, spreading the pre-come on him with a few lazy strokes before matching the movement with the rhythm of our hips.

I fall into it, the heat of it, the urgency, the way we're too rough but don't give a fuck, the fact that he'll be sore and I'll be bruised. My body feels like it's covered in sweat but it doesn't matter, is inconsequential, and he kisses me, wants me in him, above him, his cock pulsing in my fist as he swears against my mouth.

"Oh god," he breathes out, out of control, and he reaches above him to clutch a headboard bar. The other remains on my shoulder, nails digging in, and his hips move fluidly. His muscles keep contracting around me, and he bites on his lower lip whenever I brutally hit his prostate, a muffled yet guttural groan sounding in the heated air around us. He chants, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh _fuck_ –", and it's all nonsense and he doesn't seem to care.

"You still with me?" I ask, my voice shaking, and he nods, slurs, "Yes, yes, yes," every time I thrust into him, his voice mixing with the sound of my hips slamming against his ass. I run my thumb over his slit, trying not to lose it when he's so far gone, when he feels so fucking good. No one's ever had to ask me if I'm still with them during sex, if I'm too out of it, no one except him, and now I remember why. What makes it worse is that it's mutual – it makes it almost lethal.

He reaches up and kisses me, sucking on my lower lip, and then both of his arms grab onto my shoulders, fly into my hair, and he trembles and groans, masculine and low. I fuck him until the bed moves and the headboard bangs against the wall and he sounds like the groans are tearing his lungs apart. I kiss him again and again and again, and I missed him, fuck I missed him, and suddenly he comes to a still. He gasps against my lips, pupils expanding, and his entire body tenses up as he comes, as he falls apart beneath me. His muscles spasm around my cock, strangling my dick so hard that it's not easy to fuck into it but I do because nothing's ever felt as good, and my fingers feel wet and sticky as his cock pulsates in my fist, streaks of come erupting, and he's so tight and he's mine and he's perfect, and I slip into it, groaning into his mouth as my hips jerk, fucking him through it, wanting to fuck him through it.

"Fuck," I manage, my own voice foreign and choked up. "Fuck, _fuck_." I push in again and come hard, feeling like something inside me is breaking, coming so hard that it hurts even as it feels like the most unbearable pleasure to ever wash over me.

Behind closed eyes, all I can see is him. All I feel is him beneath me, relaxing, shivering, radiating warmth. His chest moving as he breathes heavily. My scalp hurts from him pulling on my hair, my mouth is swollen and raw, but our mouths find each other and slide together slowly, anyway. Just to get a focal point in this mess.

His hands run down my back, caressing, and I breathe him in, moving to kiss the side of his face, letting him come down. Letting myself do the same. He's still shivering beneath me, and I don't pull out of him. Don't want to just yet.

"Fuck," he whispers, voice hoarse. He sounds wrecked. When I open my eyes, he's looking at me, hair a mess, cheeks rosy, eyes wide and almost helpless. An open book, like I could see it all – his secrets and mistakes, all the little things that make up who he is. And he came back to me.

I smile a small, small smile into his cheek, trying to wrap my head around it. "You okay?"

His breaths steady slowly. "Yeah." He doesn't sound too sure, but he says it anyway. He sounds like he's just gotten his brain fucked out and speaking is a little difficult.

"Fuck, you're amazing." I almost laugh, smiling wider against his skin. "God." I inhale his scent.

I'm still holding his now almost flaccid cock, and his come has started drying onto my palm. I love every gritty detail, love the mess we've made, but he shifts slightly beneath me, and I let go, not wanting to crush him. I pull my cock out of him carefully, and he flinches, a small yet fucking sexy gasp escaping his lips when the crown slips out of him, his hole tightening and come slipping out. I place a hand on his chest, over his heart, feeling the fast thud, thud, thud as I sit up between his legs. He's sweaty, sex-haired, flushed, come-stained, well-fucked and glowing, and my stomach drops.

You're beautiful. You're astounding. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I rub my face with one hand, trying to suppress a shit-eating grin or a worshipping gaze. "God, I could do with a cigarette," I laugh, my fingers rubbing his knee just to keep touching. He stares at me like he still hasn't quite caught up with me, and I grin slightly.

I get off the bed, messing my hair, feeling it wet from the roots, watching him close his legs, but that's alright, twenty minutes before I'll push them apart again. We've got catching up to do. A shit load of catching up to do. I open a drawer to get us a cigarette, but only find five empty packs. "Dammit," I swear, pulling boxers on instead. "I've got some in the kitchen," I tell him. My body feels more relaxed than it has in a long time, and the world has slowed down somehow, seems less chaotic. He's risen to rest on his elbows, his cock lying against his lower stomach, and I smile, smile, smile, a euphoric buzz in my veins. "Be right back."

It's hard to tear my eyes away from him.

I find cigarettes in the kitchen, seeing the empty beer bottles from earlier still standing on the counter, the memories now gold-tinted, and I store them in some part of my brain where I can fish them out at will. And stupid, really, that I put boxers on, but it was habit. Useless, though. I'll take them off, slide into bed with him, enjoy the much needed post-coital cigarette, and then fuck him until sunrise. Amazing plan.

I push the bedroom door back open just as Brendon's pulling his pants back on. He freezes by the bed, looks up, hands on the undone fly. I stop where I am, ignoring the instant sensation of having been punched in the gut.

"What are you doing?" I ask. What the fuck does he think he's doing?

He kicks back into motion and zips himself up. "What does it look like I'm doing?" I don't respond, just stare. He glances at me, bangs hanging in front of his eyes. "I'm going."

"Brendon. That's not funny." No reaction. He picks up his socks and stuffs them into his pockets hurriedly. I walk over in four long strides, grabbing his bare shoulders. His skin is still hot to the touch. "Brendon." He avoids eye contact. "Brendon. _Bren_."

He looks up, and there it is: guilt. Right there in his eyes. A tormented guilt and anger rooted in it, and he snaps, "We did it, okay? We fucked, so now I can- I can stop thinking about you, I can stop –"

"No," I cut him off, capturing his lips though he turns his head away. "No stopping." Never. It's not an option.

"Ryan," he says, sounding broken. I can fix it. I can, but that requires him not going. "I can't do this to him." His voice wavers. "Not to him."

"But we're not doing anything to anyone!" I argue angrily, and he laughs, desperate, close to a break down. "No, listen. _Listen_. What he doesn't know, what _they_ don't know, can't hurt them."

"But what I know –"

"You did what you wanted. We only did what we both wanted," I say, cup the back of his head and kiss him. He responds, hands fumbling, not sure whether to take hold of me or not. I put everything into the kiss, everything, the magic powers needed to make him stay, and he kisses back like he desperately wants to hold on. "There's nothing wrong with this," I say against his lips, and that's when he pulls himself free of my hold and heads out of the room. I try to breathe, but it's hard. It's hard without him. The sheets haven't even cooled yet, we've barely recovered from our orgasms, and he's already leaving.

When I march out of my bedroom, he's by the dining table, shoes back on and shaking hands clumsily buttoning up his shirt.

"You think leaving is going to solve anything?" I ask him angrily, watching him cover up the bite and nail marks, the bruises and come stains. He pockets his tie, in a real hurry. "You think you can pretend this never happened? Because you can't! Don't think for a second that I'll let you do that!"

"I made a mistake," he says, lying to himself, and he grabs his coat from the back of the dining chair closest to him and throws it on before trying to get past me to the door.

I block his way, grabbing his arm and keeping him still. "Yeah. A mistake by not coming here sooner."

He looks hurt but why? The sex? My words? Shane? He pulls himself free, and I don't even know what's going on anymore, why he is doing this when we both know where he belongs, why he is trying to sabotage this for us. It doesn't make any sense as I follow him to the door, watching him button his jacket, and then he's there, fingers curling around the door handle.

"Brendon!" I yell, not caring how desperate I sound. He stops, and I'm trembling. "You walk out that door, and you'll regret it! You will always regret it! Because you can't deny this, what we have. You leave now, and it will eat you up inside." He's not moving. He's listening. "You're not going to tell him. Stay or go, you will never tell him about what we did, and neither will I. It's not wrong to go after what you want, Bren. Fuck, when was the last time you thought what you wanted and fucking went for it? Do you even remember? Because no matter what happens, this won't change. Us. I'm under your skin, and if you go, you'll lie there tonight, ridden with useless guilt and not because of what you did, but because you can't fucking stop thinking about me. When you wake up, when you go to bed, when he fucking makes you come, you'll be thinking about me. Or then – Then you can stay. You can be here, with me, and no one will ever have to know. But if you walk out that door, I swear you will regret it for the rest of your life."

I take in a shuddery breath and watch the tension in his shoulders, watch him unblinkingly, waiting for his vanishing act where he goes and leaves me fucking broken again, and I don't know how to recover from that this time. I don't know if I ever did to begin with.

Excruciatingly slowly, his hand drops back to his side. He turns around slowly, too slowly, and then he leans against the door, shoulders slumped, looking small. He's got a look in his eyes like I'm the worst fucker he's ever come across, but then he laughs emptily, out of desperation, maybe.

"So," he says quietly, voice testing the waters but still managing to make the iron hold around my heart loosen. He breathes in, he breathes out, and he smiles. "What do we do now?"

I cock my head to the side. Welcome him home.

_End of Vol.2 – I_


	7. Chapter 7

PART TWO

**II**

****

Chapter 1: Nocturnal As We Are

The round table is covered in glasses, and I have to move my chair to give more room to the people joining our overcrowded party. Their voices all blur together, barely audible over the music in the club, but I laugh anyway, talking to the people closest to me. Gabe's been shocking everyone with vivid details of a Uruguayan prostitute he spent a night with on his trip down south – "Just for a laugh," he says. "I don't need to pay for sex. I mean, come on! Diane, tell me I'm not fucking sexy!"

I turn my head away, leaving him to his pursuits of sleeping with more female celebrities. I lean over Keltie to talk to Alice, who's drunk as fuck but what more can I expect from the man? Margaux keeps trying to get my attention, her bony hand getting lost on my thigh every few minutes. Keltie can't see it, but she looks like she suspects something, and I try to discreetly push the model's hand away as I smile at her benignly. Crowds have gathered close by to stare at us like we're on display, to try and get past the bouncers of the VIP section, occasionally yelling our names and waving hopefully. Keltie looks like she feels out of place but is intrigued by the situation, Gabe is loving it, and I think it's kind of funny, really. All the attention. How important it is for famous people to underline their fame, come to these clubs and roll around in special treatment.

Alice is touching a lock of Keltie's hair. "How do you keep it so soft?" he wonders, his black, ragged chunks of hair falling to his shoulders.

"You know, raw egg does wonders for your hair," Margaux informs us, but then she gets distracted, looking ahead of herself. "Well, isn't he fine." She smiles to herself devilishly, and I follow her gaze to the entrance of the VIP area. Two guys are talking to one of the bouncers. The bouncer looks our way, and I give him a nod as the unofficial head of our round table. And Margaux is right: he is fine. Finer. The finest. And it's funnier how these models, actresses and singers lose their shine when their artificiality is replaced with something that actually matters. Someone that actually matters.

"Shane!" Gabe laughs out loud to the new arrivals as I decline Margaux's offer and pass the small silver tray of coke lines along to an eager looking Alice. "Bren!"

The music soars in my ears, and I focus on smoking a cigarette and talking to Alice about Buddhism out of all things, but that's fine, it's all good, we're all famous enough to be philosophers. Gabe's motioning back and forth and talking to Shane and Brendon, who are just visible in my peripheral vision. My skin feels electric, and maybe the music isn't soaring in my ears. Maybe it's just blood.

"Ryan!" Shane calls out over the music, and I jerk and look his way, full of surprise.

"Shane! Hey, man!" I blow out cigarette smoke. Shane looks at the people by the table like he's this close to shitting his pants. I count to three, and then – "Oh. Hey, Brendon."

Brendon nods. "Hey, Ryan. Keltie." He does a cordial hand lift. He's wearing a tight, black t-shirt that leaves a slice of his lower stomach exposed, his blue hip huggers coming so low on his waist that his hipbones are visible. I breathe in deep, my hands dropping to my knees and squeezing tightly. There's nothing dignified in the way that my pants suddenly feel tighter, but I don't need it to be dignified.

He's put effort into it. Tonight. His clothes. His hair. I bet he smells divine.

"Haven't seen you in a while," I tell him, and he looks searching, cocking his enticing hips as his brows furrow.

"Yeah, man! Must've been like –"

"Before Christmas."

"– before Christmas! Yeah. Exactly. You been good?"

I shrug. "Been good."

"Far out," he smiles, and we hold eye contact for a second during which his casual smile fades. He points over his shoulder. "Well, I'm gonna go tackle the trenches around the bar and try to get us some drinks." He turns to his boyfriend. "Shane, the usual?"

Shane seems to snap out of a daze and is quick to nod. "Oh. Yeah. Thanks."

Brendon nods, smiles, our eyes meet again. He averts his gaze. He leaves the VIP section and vanishes back to the dance floor, snaking between people, and his body looks amazing when he moves. When he does anything at all. I seem to be the only one who's aware of it.

Gabe's returned to his Uruguayan whore story, and Keltie shakes her head like she doesn't know what to make of it while I say, "Shane, sit down! Alice, this is the guy directing my documentary! Shane Valdes, Alice Cooper. You guys talk. About. The importance of makeup in the visual arts." I get up and adjust my jacket a little. "Excuse me for a minute. Need to go to the little boys' room."

I cause a commotion by exiting the fenced off area, people grabbing my arms and calling my name. One of the venue security men tells the clubbers to make way for me and then proceeds to follow me across the dance floor to make sure I am not disturbed. If clubs want guests like us, they need to make sure we get what we need.

"Thanks, man," I say when I get to the door leading to the toilets, shaking hands with the bouncer and passing him a ten, and he nods, all serious like, and then stays firmly where he is to guard the door as I slip in.

I take in the surroundings: one guy at the urinals, another just passing me on his way back out, and one – the one – by the sinks, pretending to be drying his hands though they don't look wet. I go to the sinks and put my hands under the tap of running water. I watch the reflection of the room as the urinal guy zips himself up and heads to the door without washing his hands. I watch him leave. We watch him leave.

I pull my hands back, shake water off of them. Meet his eyes in the mirror as he puts his hands into his jean pockets and smiles wickedly. "So," he says. "Hi."

"Hey."

He grins deviously, and my guts flare up even as I grin cockily.

Push the door open, step inside, close the door, lock it.

The stall wall bangs loudly when I push Brendon against it, our mouths locked and hungry. His hands are in my hair, his entire body asking me, telling me, practically offering itself. He groans against my mouth, and that should not be allowed, his taste, his too tight clothes and the way he smells and him, him, _him_. "You should not wear these jeans," I tell him breathlessly between kisses, my hands grabbing his ass through the denim. "Makes me want to fuck you so hard."

He groans against my mouth. "Why d'you think I put them on in the first place?"

Tease.

"You've been thinking about me all fucking day, haven't you?"

"Yes." His voice is gorgeously breathless. I love him wanting me, want him wanting me. He pulls me in for a dirty kiss, but not too hard. We both know where we are, who's out there, how much time we probably have: five minutes with this crowd. Go back and tell the others that getting a drink was impossible, that I got cornered by some overeager fan. Lie a little. Cover up our tracks. We've become good at that.

Practice makes perfect.

He cups the front of my pants roughly, rubbing just right and having me rocking into his hand. I have nothing on him: I've been thinking about him all day, all goddamn day again. I break the kiss and bite on his lower lip hungrily. "Don't make me go back out there with a hard-on," I whisper, my breathing laboured, knowing that it's probably too late already and my cock will harden fully regardless of what he does next.

"What if I took care of it?" he returns sultrily.

Maybe he could with that mouth of his, or with his hand or, fuck, fuck, better yet, I could fuck him against the wall, give us both what we need. But then we'd stumble out looking so fucked, and she's here and he's here. And we can't have that. No, that'd be no fun at all.

I reluctantly pull his hand off of my crotch. He lets out a sound of protest. I pant against his cheek, breathing him in. Savouring his scent. Mind racing. Trying to make this work. "It's been four days, Bren. Four fucking days."

"I know. Fuck, I know," he groans, sounding so gorgeous, music to my ears. He takes in a deep breath. "We could. Now. If you want to?"

"Yeah. God, yeah. Always want to."

His breath gets cut short, and he squeezes my hip tightly. "Me too."

It sounds like a confession if there ever was one.

Our lips meet, the kiss lingering. Cigarettes have mixed with the taste that's just him, and it's intoxicating. "You know what to do?" I ask breathlessly.

"Of course."

"Good." We smile against each other's mouths, and a joy deep within me awakens, something I can't explain or label. "Get to it," I say, pulling away from him and nodding towards the door. He wipes his mouth and stops to listen for a second, makes sure no one's right outside. Before he steps out, he catches me by surprise and lands a kiss on my lips. It's a clumsy fit, my lips squashed against his. It's the most perfect kiss I've ever gotten.

Once he's gone, I try to catch my breath. I straighten my clothes, flatten my hair and count to twenty-five twice before following suit. The toilets are now Brendonless. I check my reflection in the mirror, habitually checking for lipstick stains that Keltie might notice, but screwing men is so much easier than trying to conduct an affair with a woman. I look slightly dazed, but fuck it. I'm dazed. Sold. Done for.

The bouncer is still waiting for me outside. He now escorts me back across the dance floor. Brendon's at the bar, and he keeps up a neutral expression as he waits to get served.

Gabe is canoodling with Diane, who's probably just amusing him. She's explaining about her new movie that's coming out in a few months, followed by Gabe saying that it will be a flop because no one's going to think someone as beautiful as her would actually date Woody Allen. Keltie's expression brightens up when she sees me, but I don't reclaim my seat. "Listen, babe," I call out to her over the noise. "I just bumped into an old friend from LA, Scotty. I've mentioned Scotty, right?" I then point at my ear. "It's so noisy in here, so we're heading out to catch up!" I back this up by now motioning towards the exit.

She looks perplexed. "Scotty? I don't recall you –"

"Yeah, Scotty. You know Scotty!"

She frowns. "I don't really – But. Yeah. Yeah, sure thing." She smiles and reaches for her purse, and no, no, not what I meant.

"Aw, Kelts, it's gonna be a guys only thing." I shrug apologetically, and her smile fades. I know that she doesn't want me to leave her alone here when she doesn't know anyone apart from Gabe, and Gabe is extremely preoccupied with Miss Keaton while Alice is still trying to put moves on Keltie.

"We'll just have to have fun without you!" Margaux laughs from beside my girl, high on coke, and she grabs Keltie's hand enthusiastically.

"I'm sure you will."

Keltie looks affronted. I'd be affected by it if it weren't for what I'm trading her company with.

"Call me tomorrow," I tell her and quickly wave a goodbye, and it's only then that Shane notices me leaving, and his face falls and he looks bummed out that I continue not to socialise with him outside work. I wink at him, tongue in cheek, and he laughs like I'm one crazy fucker.

Brendon enters the VIP area just as I exit it. I don't as much as look at him.

Fifteen minutes and two cigarettes later, Brendon walks out of the club. I'm on the other side of the street, not enjoying the cold, but then it stops to matter. He spots me and crosses the street, and there's something to the way he walks that's mesmerising. "Hey," he says, eyes sparkling. "So where are you right now?"

"Catching up with an imaginary friend. You?"

He lifts a hand to his temple. "Killer headache. Nearly head-splitting."

"Huh." I step closer to him like he is the centre of gravity. "These sudden migraines of yours are worrying."

"That's what Shane said," he says with a serious expression though his eyes are still twinkling, competing with stars, and I offer him the rest of what I'm smoking. His cheeks hollow as he takes in a deep drag, and he instantly coughs, blinking and passing the stub back to me. I simply flick it to the ground. He eventually blows the smoke out. "Well, that wasn't a cigarette."

"Nope."

"You're bad company, Ross."

"Is there any other kind?" I ask, signalling over the taxi that's coming down the street. He's smiling a secretive smile to himself, and I'm pretty sure I'm the secret. "Now come on. It's taking a lot of willpower not to kiss you out here."

"Trust me," he says, eyes lingering on my lips, "I know."

And there it is again. That stupid little somersault in my stomach that only he manages to cause. The rush of something that leaves me weak in the knees.

He gets in the taxi first. I look up and down the street, make sure no one of importance sees us slipping into the night together, and then get in myself.

In the backseat, his hand restlessly travels up my thigh, our fingers lacing and our joined hands moving from me to him, landing on his crotch, rubbing his gorgeous dick through his jeans. Both of us look out of the windows like we're bored to tears when in reality he's getting hard already, our breaths shallow, and I'm so hard for him. We're so fucking desperate that we're trying to touch each other in the taxi.

Shane's got no idea just how much of a crazy fucker I am.

The studio's recently been built in the Lower East Side, a few singles and albums on its belt. It's been booked indefinitely for the recording of the first Ryan Ross & The Whiskeys album, though Jon showed me a recording schedule he drafted. I think he's worried that if he doesn't hold the reins, then no one will.

He seems to forget the miraculous existence of Vicky. She told the band to come in for noon but for me – the main musician – to come in later. It's closer to five when Keltie and I get to the studio. We enter a small but official lobby with a reception desk and a secure looking door on the left. Vicky is talking to the receptionist, and she is looking good in a tight leather skirt and a frilly white shirt. She spots us instantly.

"Right on time!" she says, though she told me to come in around two. She sounds enthusiastic, and her eyes sparkle like this is as much her album as it is mine. The blonde receptionist looks startled and sorry for existing – Vicky's clearly already enforcing the "Disturb Mr. Ross only when absolutely necessary" rule. "Keltie," Vicky then says, her tone having just the perfect amount of surprise in it without being downright rude.

"Keltie wanted to check out the studio," I explain before my manager thinks that I'll be bringing my girlfriend to the studio regularly. I have no such plans.

"Ah, I see."

"I wanted to see what my boyfriend's up to," Keltie says, squeezing my hand tighter. What I'm up to, what I'm up to. She gets to see carefully selected sections of my life.

I say, "So. Can we see the place?"

Vicky's way ahead of me, taking us to the heavy metal door that leads us to a wide corridor. She says that only a few have got a key to the studio and hands me mine. "Gabe doesn't have one," she says. "He'd lose his own grandmother if given the chance." She flicks brown hair to the side and adds, "So far, your fans don't know you're here. They will soon. Don't worry, we'll keep security out front to keep the crazy ones out."

"Aren't they all crazy?" I counter. She laughs but doesn't reply.

The studio is at the end of the corridor, consisting of a number of rooms: a live room with separate vocal and percussion booths at the back, a spacious control room with a few couches opposite the mixing console, a cosy looking lounge and a storage room. The contents of our practice space are divided between the storage room and the lounge, which has hard cases behind the two orange couches: guitars, amps, basses and Jon's tenor ukulele have taken up most of the space. The lounge has a table and five chairs next to a small fridge from the 60s. The room looks like an escape from the stress of the studio whenever we need it. There are no windows anywhere. Good. We'll be recording during nights mostly, nocturnal as we are.

Most hard cases have been marked with my initials, a few with 'Canadian History' and a few with 'The Followers', and there's even one with 'S.J.S.', but I push Spencer and his absence out of my mind and whatever spoils I might have gained from our divorce. Instead I focus on the few boxes in the far corner with an unfamiliar combination of 'S.V.'

Vicky is quick to clear up the confusion. "All of those are Shane's. He's been given days on which he can come and shoot you guys in the studio."

"Is he here now?" I ask.

"He's somewhere here." She leads us to the control room where Bob and Roy are, both getting up to shake hands with me. I got to pick whichever producer I wanted, and Bob temporarily has moved to New York for me. I wanted him though we've never worked together, but Bob Johnston has experience with a different type of music. I've come from a progressive rock band. Bob's got a handful of Leonard Cohen albums on his CV. This should be beyond interesting. Roy, on the other hand, mixed _Her House_ back in '72 and is one of the rare men I've felt in tune with about music, Spencer and Jon aside. Bob's got an assistant or another with him, but the kid doesn't even try to talk to me. The Rule once again enforced. I wave to my band in the recording room through the glass. The Whiskeys all grin excitedly, microphones set out by the different instruments.

"That's a lot of buttons," Keltie laughs, eyeing the mixing console.

"Yes, well, music is more than just something to dance to," Vicky says to Keltie. "Speaking of which." She turns to me, lifting her neatly plucked eyebrows too high. "Heard you met Scotty the other night. How is he these days?"

"Scotty's great. Still a lunatic."

"No change there then," she says, not as naturally as I'd like. She brushes hair behind her ear, maybe wondering if her acting skills are up to the job. They're so-so. "Well," she says. "Should you start recording your comeback album?"

"Yeah."

I pull out an old notebook, a compilation of notes and observations originally scribbled down on napkins and receipts. It's all there, what I want to say on this album. Joe always wanted rock 'n roll, good times, something groovy, something heavy. He didn't care about the words I sang. Jon does. It's not what'd Jon say or think or tell the world, but our partnership is unequal, and he once said that he supposes that even the dark things of the world need to be addressed.

The notebook also has a list of twenty-five songs that I want to record, and I look over it to remind myself of what I'm meant to do. We need to start somewhere, and this is the first album I've ever done where I don't need to compromise or accommodate other people's wishes. The music has lived in my head for months now. All that needs to happen is for the music to come out right.

Keltie starts getting ready to leave for her show after a quick browse about the place, and I kiss her goodbye with thought put into it, a see you later and miss you already. She looks about the studio excitedly. "I know this will be your masterpiece. I can sense it already." She smoothes down my hair, smiling lovingly, and a small sense of pride sparks up in my guts. She just might be right.

As Keltie leaves, Vicky calls out, "Good luck with the show!" She waves with a fake smile, and Keltie looks appalled and vanishes with quick, echoing steps. Thankfully the recording team have joined my band in the live room and aren't present to see my girls bickering.

"Vicky, I've told you to play nice."

"I was –"

"No. You acted like a bitch again."

Vicky smirks. "Well, I tend to be a bitch." I stare her down, and she rolls her eyes. "Maybe I'd be nice if she did more than glare at me." Vicky's undeniably got a point there. "Anyway," she says, professional once more, "the studio's ready, your imaginary friend Scotty exists, and you're full of songs. Looks like we're all set!"

"About that –"

"I don't need to know." She dismissively holds out her palms. "My job is to look out for you. Trust me, I lie for you on a daily basis, anyway." She clears her throat. "Now, that being said, it's a first you've asked me to do something like that and if you feel like your manager should know what's going on..."

"It's not."

"Then that's all I need to know." She smiles, but not well enough to fool me. She wants to know.

I go to the live room to meet the band. A team spirit is instantly palpable, Jon squeezing my shoulder, grinning, while Patrick is starry-eyed. "This studio is incredible!" the former bookstore employee enthuses. "All cutting edge!"

"Ain't it good to be us," Gabe grins.

It takes us forever to settle down, Vicky repeatedly telling Gabe to pack it in and focus. I choose a song at random – _Piccadilly Women_ – as the place to start out of all the songs and all the separate tracks: vocals, drums, guitars, handclaps, bass lines, ukulele intros and then some and then some.

We are trying to find a common tune with Bob's skills and our vision when the door bursts open, and Shane stumbles in, carrying an enormous box.

"Hey. Sorry," he heaves, putting the box down clumsily. "Extra cameras and lights," he explains, catching his breath. He looks excited and tired, and as far as I can tell, absolutely clueless. I don't really think I've got one on him, though I do: I'm fucking his boyfriend. I've never thought much of Shane and still don't. If anything, I think less of him. How can he not notice? Granted, Brendon's an amazing liar and actor, almost to the point of disturbing. But he's done it all his life. Pretended to be people he hasn't been: a good Mormon son, an obedient waiter. But if I were Shane, if _I_ were him, I'd sense it. I'd smell another man's scent on Brendon's soft skin, sense the presence of someone else in his smile. Shane probably thinks it's all him.

Yeah, Shane and what army?

"Looks like you've got your hands full," I tell him as if to a compatriot. He forms no kind of competition anymore, but I want to keep him out of the way. Content.

"Yeah, I do. The van's almost empty now, though."

Gabe, who has been looking at Shane's tired face with some concern, says, "Pobrecito. You need assistants or light people or something, man. I mean, you can't do an entire documentary on your own."

"He's not alone," Vicky objects from where she is leaning against the window between the studio and the control room. "We'll be hiring him a crew now that the proper filming is about to start."

A proper film crew. Shane won't be any less busy because of one; he'll be even more occupied delegating the work load and processing the material coming in. Shane looks slightly chuffed when the talk turns to a proper crew, and why wouldn't he be? Married to his job as he is. Oh, he's professional. He's so fucking professional.

Brendon lied to Shane about the waiting job, about getting fired back in December. Brendon told me that when we were reunited. Confided in me. He told Shane that he left the restaurant, and when he told Shane about it, he had already gotten a job bartending in that semi-sleazy club in Chinatown, a thankfully manageable trip from my place. I don't think Brendon chose the club because of me. He just really wanted to get a job before his boyfriend found out that he was unemployed, but I like to think that maybe he focused his job searching to Lower Manhattan for a reason.

Brendon can't be his real self around Shane. It's not Brendon's fault, but Shane's. Brendon gets to be himself around me, though.

We start getting ready to do a practice run of _Piccadilly Women_, and Shane prepares to film The Official Start of The Recording of the Currently Unnamed Album. Gabe came up with the easy to remember title and seems pleased with it.

Shane sets up his gear next to me, clearly intent on having as much footage of me as he can. I stand where I am, a guitar hanging around my lean form. Shane's bulkier than me. More muscular. I remain my twig self, but I'm taller than him. It's pretty obvious which physique Brendon prefers.

"So," I say, tuning my guitar two steps down, watching Shane manhandling a heavy looking video camera. "What days are you coming to film us?"

"Depends on how long it takes for you to record the album, but Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday this week and the next."

"Far out."

My mind races. Brendon works during the weekends, but he's definitely free on Tuesdays. That'll work. Next Tuesday, I need to sleep in, forget to show up because I was caught up pondering the mystery of life or some other pseudo-artistic reason and have Brendon come over, fuck him for hours while Shane videos Patrick trying to hit the high hat just right.

"Although I need to be out of here early next Thursday," Shane then says, "so that might be only half a night of shooting."

"You going someplace?"

The Bermuda Triangle, maybe?

"Nah, it's just –" He pauses and smiles sheepishly. "It's our second anniversary with Brendon. He's finishing early at the club so we'll still get to celebrate a little."

"Huh. That's nice." I tune the B-turned-G string. "Congratulations."

"Thanks." He sounds proud, like it's an accomplishment. And it is. Someone like him having managed to hold onto Brendon for two whole years. It's certainly an accomplishment. I only managed it for a few months myself. This time, though, it's different. Being with Brendon always felt good, but I don't remember it having felt this light. Knowing we won't get caught this time. The secret rendezvous are still there but now without my second-guessing. I know what I want.

And Shane might think he's got Brendon, but he doesn't. I do.

Shane's enthusiasm for their anniversary would be ironic if it weren't a little sad. Celebrating something that exists only in his head.

"But, you know, it's not a big a deal," Shane muses. "It's not like a single day measures up your relationship."

"Oh yeah," I nod. "You're right about that."

But all the time Brendon spends in my bed does.

He laughs, his muscles vibrating under his slicked up skin. I press my nails into his lower stomach, hoping to signal him to stop, but he doesn't. I hum in protest, the sound muffled. He says a breathless, "Sorry, fuck, sorry." His hands are tangled in my hair, and I try to breathe through my nose, focus on sucking and not biting, and I slowly, slowly try to get some magic happening right about now, but my tongue feels like a stiff log and the saliva's just making everything messier. I must not gag, don't gag, don't gag _again,_ and he laughs, a spurt of, "Sorry, oh god, I don't mean to –"

I pull back with a wet pop and a silent thank you from my pained jaw. I sit on my knees between his parted legs and glare. "Okay, which bit of this blowjob attempt is funny to you?" I ask demandingly. He keeps laughing, almost gasping for breath. "Fuck you, Brendon. Oh my god, fuck _you_."

I attempt to leave, but he grabs my wrist. "Aw, come on!" He tugs me closer, but I refuse to move or to look at him, focusing my gaze to the window and the evening sunlight coming in through the venetian blinds of my bedroom. I really don't need to be here, getting laughed at. I could be banging a hundred groupies right about now. "You get an A for effort," he says seductively, now crawling into my lap. He's naked and gorgeous and radiating warmth, once fucked already, and I should've just stuck to that, do what I'm good at and not try to explore completely unfamiliar territory.

I get my cock sucked. Not the other way around.

Except for how I want to do it to him and how I need therapy so badly because this isn't making me want to gag.

Oh. Actually, it is.

"I can't believe it," I sigh, wrapping my arms around his waist and holding him close. I press my forehead against his shoulder. "You know how much I've had my cock sucked? A lot. A hell of a lot."

"Uh huh," he says, nibbling my earlobe, his erection brushing against my stomach, leaving behind a wet trail of my own saliva and hopefully his pre-come, but probably not. He's most likely sporting a sympathy boner rather than a 'Ryan, your mouth feels so good on me' boner. I trace the insides of my mouth with my tongue, a foreign taste all over. He tastes good. His cock tastes good, and I want to get back down there and deepthroat him until he's crying for mercy, or maybe I should just lick his balls a little, see where that gets us. If he only stopped _laughing_.

"I've had my cock sucked hundreds of times by dozens and dozens of people. And they all just fucking went for it, and some gagged, sure, and it only made me fuck their mouths because I wanted to be a dick about it, but I thought that cock-sucking just came to people _naturally_. I thought that it was like, like breathing, something you just _do._"

"Uh huh." He's leaving wet kisses on my neck, and I bury my nose in his hair, breathe him in, feeling the sorrow now wash over me.

"I can't believe I'm not good at this." I feel him laughing silently, the movement vibrating against me, and I growl and push him off of me. He lands back against the mattress with a soft thud but grins up at me devilishly. "See how funny it is when I bite your dick," I snarl.

"Groupies have given you an unrealistic view of sex," he says matter-of-factly, stretching out on the bed, legs spreading and for a split second I see his stretched hole, and my guts tighten with want. "And besides, you're very good at the other stuff." He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I flip him off before eyeing his beautifully erected cock with some longing.

"You know, maybe it's not me. Maybe it's you and your fucking oversized bratwurst. You thought of that?"

"Your cock is bigger than mine, so... no." He sounds fucking self-satisfied right about now. "It's pretty hot you haven't sucked cock before. I mean, I can tell you've now got a lot more experience in fucking men."

"Oh, you can?" I ask sceptically, though yeah. He probably can. I've picked up tricks. Can locate his prostate in record time. Have more positions up my sleeves. "Fucking is one thing, this another. I mean, I'm not going to suck just anyone's cock," I object. Degrade myself for just anyone. It doesn't feel degrading when I do it to him, though. It's him.

"You shouldn't either. I mean, with your incredible cocksucking skills, you might spoil a poor man for life –"

"Fuck. Off."

He laughs again, his gaze dropping from my face. "Maybe I should... give you a demonstration. In which I blow that _amazing_ cock of yours and you groan my name as you shoot come down my throat." His voice has dropped significantly, and then he looks over to the alarm clock on my nightstand. "We've got fifteen minutes before I need to leave for work, and I'd hate to leave you with that boner."

"And what about yours?" I ask, crawling over his body. Our cocks brush together as I lean in, and his breathing hitches deliciously.

His parted lips brush against mine. "I'll touch myself as I blow you."

"Christ," I breathe out, my mind full of images of him jerking off, his mouth full of my cock and him loving it and getting driven insane by it. I kiss him hungrily, craving him even though I've just had him, but he's addictive. He's the only addiction I've ever had that I don't think stems from a deep-seeded desire to self-destruct.

"You taste like me," he groans against my lips that still feel numb from my attempts to suck him off. "Fuck, that's so hot." He kisses me twice as hard like he's trying to trace the taste, and just as I'm fucking melting into it, he flips us over. Our knees knock together, but we fall into place. We always do, like puzzle pieces, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, legs entwined. He breaks the kiss with a knowing grin. "You know what makes a good blowjob?" He leaves a wet kiss on my jaw and begins to travel down my body, his lips moving on me like he wants to devour me.

"Having no gag reflex?" I suggest as he sucks on a nipple. I muffle a groan.

"Practice," he corrects, his hand having slipped down to size up my cock.

"I really doubt that," I say, trying to breathe though my head is spinning – he is _touching_ my cock, his hardened fingertips caressing the flushed skin. His tongue dips into my belly button, and that should not turn me on the way it does. I writhe beneath him a little. Just a little. I try to expatiate upon my point. "Some of the girls who've sucked me off have been blowjob virgins, and they've still managed to get most of my cock in."

"You got more like a third," he grins against my hipbones, butterfly kisses teasing the hell out of me.

"I definitely got half of your dick. At _least_."

He looks up, pupils blown and lips shiny. "Guess you're not as greedy as me." He takes a hold of the base of my cock and swallows me down in one fucking swift and sinful movement. I groan loudly, hips bucking as I grab his hair. Oh _god_. His lips stretch around my length, every inch of me disappearing into his hot, velvety mouth like it's nothing, like that's all it takes. I curse and ball up the sheets with my fists. He sucks on my cock, moaning the way he always does when he blows me, greedy little cocksucker. I have no leverage because he has me gasping into the room, pleasure flashing up my spine. So wet, so hot, so good, his tongue, his lips, god, he's fucking amazing at this, and the things he does with his mouth, what he does to me –

He pulls back, his magical mouth vanishing. I reach for him clumsily, trying to push him down from his shoulder. I rasp, "No, no, demonstration not over yet, come on –"

"The real secret," he says, tongue twirling around the head of my cock, and my entire body twitches, "is wanting to please." He pulls back, looking thoughtful. "Which I figure even the most virginal Followers fan wanted to do when they got down on their knees for you." He leans back in and hungrily kisses the tip of my cock with swollen lips, his tongue licking my slit where I'm leaking. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. "You taste like candy," he groans, sounding fucking turned on as pre-come decorates his bottom lip. I laugh in turn because I probably don't. He tasted bitter, acidy, and it made me even harder. I loved his taste. It was one of the – one of the many things. Between back then and now... The tour and the breakup and then nothing, nothing at all, and I had time to think about him during that time, and I was hungover and suffering coke withdrawal on the train to Manchester when it occurred to me that I had never sucked him off, my mouth had never been on his cock and probably now never would be, and it was a shame, I thought. Because now I wondered about his taste and scent, being on my knees, mouth so full of cock that my nose would press to his pubic hair, my saliva sliding over his balls, dirty and gritty and real, nothing being more or less than what it was. Sucking his cock. Another man's cock. Brendon's cock. Having him pull on my hair and fuck my mouth, and I never got to do that or try it out and now never would because he was gone, gone, gone, and I put that on the long fucking list of the things I never got to do with him.

Two years later, out of an English train and into my New York apartment, having him come over before work so that we can fuck, and I finally get to try it. Ticking off this particular one, though... didn't really go as planned. It's nice to know that I amuse him in bed. That's nice. Really.

"I want to please you," I object hazily because he's back to blowing me, his head bobbing up and down as he tortures my cock with that god-given mouth of his. I watch my flushed cock disappear and reappear from between his thick, red lips. He hollows his cheeks, and my eyelids flutter shut as I push into his mouth. Fucking hell. "God, Bren, just like that. Fuck, don't stop, you're so good at this, you're so – No, _no_, which bit of not stopping is unclear to you?" I groan in frustration, and he smiles against my shaft, tongue licking lazily.

"I think you want to please the part of your brain that thinks you're a natural sex god."

"Well, I am. I've got two divine powers: ingenious musical talent and god-like sex skills." He scoffs. Scoffs! "Do I need to remind you of last week? I got you off three times, Brendon. _Three_ rounds of making you come and getting you hard again before I finally let go myself, and I can go on and on without coming for fucking hours, I can – Oh, oh, Bren, fuck, fuck_fuck_." His mouth is back on me, swallowing me down, and he cups my balls, pulling on them just fucking right. He groans around me, and I know he's jerking himself off with his other hand, and I – "Fuck, I'm gonna come, Brendon,_fuck_." I grab his hair with both hands, fucking into his mouth as I orgasm suddenly, and he lets me, not gagging, swallowing repeatedly, making everything feel so much more intense. My mind and body explode in pleasure, the orgasm washing over me and rattling me to the bone, and him, god, it's all him, swallowing my come, wanting me, pleasuring me, being here with me.

He pulls back when I finally stop, my cock slipping out of his mouth. Jesus fucking Christ. His swollen lips press against my hipbone where he bites down, groaning feverishly. He jerks, and my inner thighs get hit with his semen. I keep a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing with the little sense I have left, for comradeship, for the celebration of mutual orgasms, for the warm and fuzzy contentment spreading in me.

He rolls over and lands on the messy sheets next to me, breathing hard. "So." He licks his lips slowly, tongue darting out sinfully. "You were saying something about your incredible stamina."

"Like you can brag," I say, trying to clear the haze from my head. "I just didn't want you to be late for work."

"So considerate."

I reach over to touch his soft hair, wanting to pull him close and make out for hours though I know that we can't. "I'm a gentleman, baby."

He laughs. "You're unreal, is what you are."

"Why thank you." I try to sound smug. He looks at me, eyes laughing as he smacks my hand away. He gets out of bed, his cock still half-hard. I don't bother moving or covering up anything. He's gorgeous moving around my room with nothing but slight sweat on his skin...

"Hey. Ryan." A warm hand shakes my shoulder, and I open my eyes, trying to fight off the post-coital slumber I slipped into. He's now fully dressed, leaning over me.

"Stay," I manage. It's our time right now. Shane's working at Eric's, Keltie's at practice, whereas him and I, the ones that live for the night time, are free. I'm not needed at the studio just yet, and he's not working during the day, so who knows where we are, who we are spending our time with. We could steal another hour. He could be a bit late.

"Can't," he responds, leaning down to kiss me. "I'll call you."

"Yeah, you better."

He calls me since I live alone, but I'm hardly ever here so arranging dates is annoyingly time consuming. He doesn't want me calling his place since Shane could pick up. I could come up with something work related if that happened, an excuse or another. But he doesn't want that, and I get it, even if I think he's being paranoid about it.

"What about next Thursday?" I ask sleepily.

"I've got stuff to do before work."

"After work."

"Busy. Sorry." He kisses me again, his hand sliding to my chest, resting over my heart. Like he knows. "Soon."

"Will you miss me?"

He smiles against my mouth. "Immensely."

"Good."

I taste him on my lips long after he's gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 2: Living on Borrowed Time**

Pretend they're not there. How the hell am I supposed to pretend that the huge video cameras around the table aren't there? Can anyone act normal given the circumstances?

Five drinks in, yes.

We're just a few guys playing cards in the studio lounge, taking a break from recording. I'm not keeping tabs on what we've done for the album so far. Don't want to think about it. It's four or five in the morning, maybe, and we're the only ones left: the band, Shane, Eric and I. Eric came by to say hi, but he didn't distract us – we were already distracted. Shane's had a few drinks, but he keeps the two tripod-attached cameras recording while he now holds the third, moving about, focusing in on different people. Jon's laughing hard into his hands, and Patrick is staring at his cards thoughtfully. Gabe's dealing, and Eric swears that Gabe's giving him shit hands on purpose.

I'm great at poker. No need to worry at all.

A week. The nagging voice inside my head doesn't let me forget it: we've been recording for over a week. And what do we have to show for it? What triumphs can we celebrate? Random drum takes and some recorded guitar parts. A quarter of a song somewhere. Maybe. And the songs, these songs that have been circling inside me for so long, sounded nothing like they're meant to. The band's frustrated because I can't tell them what's wrong. It just hasn't been right. But we've got time, plenty of it. It's only been a week. These days people take years to record anything. No one's pressuring me. It's fine. It's certainly not a problem.

I drink up and look at my cards, study the crude features of the king of hearts. It's got exaggerated lips. Brendon's deep asleep right now, back in the Brooklyn apartment. Soft, even breaths passing through his full lips. The other side of the bed is empty. When he reaches out for another body, it's not Shane he's looking for. It's me.

"Ryan, focus!" Eric tells me, all business like. He takes cards very seriously, which Gabe endlessly takes the piss out of.

"Lost in his thoughts again," Jon says teasingly, and Shane's camera is aimed at me as I duck my head, hair falling out of place.

"Shane," I say, and the guy looks from behind the camera. I kick back one of the chairs. "Put that thing away and play some cards."

"But –"

"I wasn't asking," I say and stub a cigarette into the ashtray. He hasn't been filming all along but he concluded that us playing showed a more relaxed and humane version of us. He's very specific about what he actually wants to film, sticking to a documentary sketch he and the lawyers have drafted. It'll be a mix of backstage scenes, interviews, and us playing the songs once we get on tour. If we ever get there. If we ever.

Shane's good at poker, but not as good as the rest of us, and I can't help but grin when Shane folds, losing his twenty bucks. Brendon won't be pleased with that. Shane knocks down a beer, looking forlorn.

"How's the crew hunt going?" Jon asks with an easy, drunken smile as he folds. He looks at the stack of bills on the table, probably realising that he's just lost the money that he was supposed to spend on a kitten for Cassie.

"Good," Shane shrugs. "We've got a production team, and we're looking for people to come to the studio and the road with us. Hired Brendon yesterday." He takes a sip of his beer.

I stare. "You hired Brendon?"

"Yeah. He can handle the equipment every bit as well as me." He looks nervous, like we'd object. Like I'd object. We all know they're an item, even if it's never explicitly said in public. Well, Eric might not know, but that's because Eric doesn't care about his non-famous friends.

I'm not objecting. It means that Brendon will come on tour with us. He's coming on tour. I won't have to spend weeks without seeing him after all. And to the studio, he'll be coming here too. Fuck, seeing Brendon just got so much easier.

"That's great," I laugh. That's fucking great, even if I realise that Shane is milking the project for all it's worth. Shane gets paid and so does Brendon. A family enterprise.

Shane relaxes. "Yeah. It'll be good to spend more time with him." He focuses on the game that Patrick, Eric and I are still playing, and that's when I realise the downside of Brendon's secondary employment: his free time's just gotten cut short, having been taken over by a lot of Shane. And that isn't great. Brendon can't be with me if he needs to be working with Shane. Although knowing Brendon and knowing the thing we've got – knowing us – he took the job to see me more. Just three days ago, he said it, just as I pushed into him. That he needs to see me more. His nails dragging down my back.

And now he's on the film crew.

Sneaky fucker.

Patrick folds. Eric looks at me murderously.

I say, "Maybe you should call him right now. Invite him over," and Shane says, "Nah, he'll be asleep, poor thing. He's tired a lot these days. He gets these migraines," and I hum and bite on my lower lip not to grin. Wear him out, do I?

Gabe is looking at me knowingly, but I give nothing away. Gabe knows. Probably. Most likely. He's asked about it, but I'm holding my peace. It doesn't concern Gabe, regardless of how hard he tried to make it happen for us. No. This one, him and I, I'm not sharing with anyone.

"Ryan. Time to show me what you've got," Eric says, and I come back down to earth, looking at my cards. I've got a pair of kings and a lot of nothing.

"Score," Eric grins as he reaches for the pot in the middle.

"Must hurt, man," Gabe laughs as Eric gets out his already bulging wallet, eager to introduce the newcomers to the family.

"Don't care," I shrug.

"You're not in touch with finance," Eric tells me sternly.

"Probably not. Vicky takes care of that." I light a new cigarette, only then realising that Jon, Patrick and Shane all look like they've been robbed.

"Cas'll be pissed," Jon says, and Shane nods like he's going to get a word from his better half too. Patrick's single but still seems sorry for himself. His paycheck for his new job is clearly still in the mail.

"You lost _two_ hundred bucks and could've won a fuck load more," Eric tells me, now counting the money feverishly to see how much he's gained. I have no idea how much money I put in; I just emptied whatever was in my wallet.

"Eh."

"You really don't care?" Eric asks with disdain. "Well. Must be nice being as rich as you." He sounds disapproving, although it's not like he's poor. He's got a chain of record stores, and I know he's rolling in it.

"What?" I ask, seeing he's unhappy.

"It just." He leans back in his chair. "It doesn't feel like a victory if you're not upset."

"So you want to see me suffer. A real friend you are."

Gabe says, "Ryan shouldn't gamble for money. It doesn't affect him. No, he should gamble for something else." He's got a mischievous look on his face that's up to no good.

"Well, go on," I tell him. "Say I take my money back and lose something else instead. What do you want? A guitar? Vicky's private phone number?"

Gabe is grinning broadly while Eric looks thoughtful. "Well," Gabe says in this _tone_, and I cut him off instantly with, "No. Fucking my girlfriend is not okay."

"Just an idea," he pouts.

"You should be so lucky."

Gabe just laughs – teasing me, the fucker. Keltie would never cheat on me. I don't need to snoop around or fear that she'll slip or give into temptation. The girl's in love with me and I make her happy. No more questions needed.

"What if I want your time?" Eric asks me. "Say every ten bucks represents an hour, so twenty hours."

I laugh. "God, Eric. I'm touched." He's grinning, and Jon's got a look on his face like he might see where this is going. I don't. "You want twenty hours, you've got them."

"Shake on it."

I reach over the table to grasp his hand, and the second I do, he says, "Great! Seems like I've got a new employee."

The guys burst out laughing as I pull my hand back. "_What?_" I seethe.

"Don't worry, I'll let you choose your own shifts."

"I am _not_ –"

"Working at one of Eric's Record Stores," he beams.

"My management will never allow it."

"You shook on it, man!" Jon laughs.

I stare at them in horror. I will be murdered there. What the fuck?

"A deal's a deal," Eric says with finality, but if he thinks for a second that I will go work for him, he's kidding himself. The guys don't seem to be able to get over my sudden demotion from rock star to retail, and even Shane's grinning like I'm his colleague now, but I'm not. Gabe says that I brought this on myself. I didn't. I thought Eric would want some contacts or some shit. And the album, what about the album?

"Your face right now," Jon grins. "I wish I had a camera."

"Oh!" Shane exclaims, looking overly enthusiastic in his puppy way. "Oh. Oh, you do!" He gets up quickly, chair legs scratching the floor, and he hurries to a box that he brought in earlier. "These are, uh, one of the latest features of the film project. Here. One for each." He's piled up Polaroid cameras on his arms and now passes them around.

"These are far out!" Patrick says and immediately snaps a picture of us. A small square comes out at the front of the bulky camera, and he snatches it and waves it in the air.

Shane babbles, "We thought they'd add a nice, personal touch to the documentary. You can take pictures of whatever in the studio, on tour, back home. "

"Who's we?" I ask as I take mine. I'll use up the film taking pictures of myself giving the camera the middle finger.

"Brendon and me. They were his idea." Shane sits back down. "He's got some great ideas for this project. It's been great working with him." He's beaming. I'd want to laugh, but don't. He's so sweet, our Shane. Getting excited about some Brendon time. He's so clueless, our Shane, thinking that the time spent together means anything to Brendon, when I know that Brendon's completely and utterly and madly –

"Say cheese!" Gabe says and takes my picture, startling me. "Eric can use this one for the employee of the month shot!"

"Die, Saporta."

They laugh.

I wonder how much time Shane and Brendon have spent together recently. It's clearly more than I thought.

Shane thinks he can take Brendon away from me? That's a laugh.

I'll show him who's running this show.

The limousine is parked in the narrow back alley, like pearl for swine. It glistens in the midnight rain, and the chauffeur is all the way at the street corner, smoking with his back turned, just like I told him to.

"Come on," I repeat, holding the door open, and Brendon laughs. He's wearing the black polo shirt that all the bar staff wear, and he clearly didn't think he'd get to spend his break like this.

"How inconspicuous," he says as he gets into the limo.

I say, "I invented subtlety," and follow. He brushes water out of his hair, eyes smirking as I close the door.

"Clearly," he says, leaning into the backseat and looking around the limo like he's a millionaire's son and used to such thrills, but then he just laughs. "Well, this is new."

The limo is Vicky's doing entirely, to transport me between the studio and my apartment with style. I don't care for it personally, but right now it has some plusses to it. "You like it?" I ask, and he just makes a funny face like he didn't expect to find himself in a limo ever. Then he focuses on me like he remembers now – me, yeah – and his eyes darken. My skin feels hot the second he touches it, crawling into my lap like a feline. His knees dig into the seat by my sides, his ass resting on my thighs.

"Don't care if this was the back of the shittiest van," he says, and Shane's van comes to mind. He leans in closer. "It's the company that matters."

He's got a point there. His lips are dry as they meet mine, and he smells like cigarettes and sweat. Not his own this time, but the general stench of the club. I don't mind it, but I much prefer him different. I love him shower fresh, when his skin feels so soft, or after sex, when he smells fucking incredible, a bit like me. I grab the back of his head and pull him in, coaxing his mouth open. He tastes like orange juice with a hint of vodka. Drinking on the job, clearly, but all of that is secondary and insignificant as I relax against him, my tongue slowly brushing over his.

Haven't seen him in two days. I hate that. Hate the waiting. Hate the thoughts that haunt me as I wait, the ones that vanish when we're reunited. It all makes sense when he's around, but when he goes, the certain things don't seem so certain anymore.

"It _is_ suspicious," he says teasingly when he pulls back from the languid, greeting kiss. "I mean, it's better than you walking into the club, but a suit wearing chauffeur coming to collect me is probably raising eyebrows as we speak."

"At least I told him to park two blocks down," I argue, pushing closer to reconnect our lips. Shane already left the studio a few hours ago, cutting his night short like he had said he would. I made up some excuse about not feeling well and jumped ship after another day of failed recording. "I'm here to steal you away," I whisper.

"Are you now?" His tongue is slowly grazing my bottom lip as our lips hover. My heart's beating fast, a knot in my guts loosening. He sighs. "I can't. Not today. I told you."

"But I thought you were finishing early tonight."

"I am, but I've got plans." His hands are pressed against my chest, now slipping downwards to my belt. "I can, however, take an extended break." He looks wicked like a little boy about to steal something he knows isn't his. And it's not his, but he's got a pretty decent claim to it.

"What plans?" I ask, pushing his hands away. I don't mind if it's documentary stuff. We talked about it after I found out about his new job, and Brendon's hardly a co-director or co-anything – more like an errand boy. And it's not just exclusively him and Shane now that the film crew is nearly complete, and it's not like – not like I'm worried or bothered by it. I just know what day it is. I just know that his plans are not professional at all.

Hair has fallen in front of his eyes, and he doesn't say anything. He scratches his head, looking awkward. I want him to say it. "Well, it's just. Um. Sort of a special or – I mean, not special, like... special, but it's. Well, it's my anniversary with Shane, actually."

"Oh. That. Almost forgot about it."

He stares. "You know?"

"Two years." I let my thumb gently brush over his moist lower lip. "Am I right?"

He looks surprised. "Yeah." He doesn't sound sad or guilty, just taken aback. "He told you?"

"He did. You didn't."

"Well, I – I just. I didn't. I mean, should I have?"

I shrug. Maybe not. Probably not, but that's not the point. "You know you can tell me anything at all." And not mentioning implies that it means something to him. So he should tell me, tell me weeks before it happens.

"I know that." He laughs slightly, embarrassed. "It's just slightly confusing sometimes."

"I don't see what's confusing about it," I tell him flatly. There's me and Keltie, and then there's me and Brendon. They are two completely independent spheres, and I've been neglecting Keltie a hell of a lot recently. I know that. I bought her a diamond bracelet to make up for it, and then I met up with Brendon and fucked him. I don't see why Brendon would find the different spheres complicated, but at least it explains why he didn't immediately say that it was their nominal anniversary. He wasn't trying to keep it from me as such. Maybe he just doesn't know that _I_ know full well where Shane's place in this equation is.

Before he gets to say anything else, I place one hand on the small of his back, the other wrapped around his neck, and I swiftly tip us over to lie down on the seat. I capture his lips before he can speak. His hips buck upwards, and I grind against him, hard and ruthless. His lips aren't dry anymore, but moist and sweet, a forbidden apple for me to devour. I wonder if this is what he has planned for later.

"You think he's gonna fuck you tonight?" I ask, setting up a rhythm.

"Probably," he groans, head dipping backwards and exposing a gorgeous stripe of his throat. I kiss him there, my teeth sinking in. I'd want to draw out blood, but know I can't mark him. Not that visibly.

"You think he's gonna fuck you as well as I do?"

His cock is hardening in his jeans, the outline a source of pleasure as I grind down. My cock's hard, has been since we parked. "No," he gasps, and I bite on his neck. No. Of course not.

"And you'll think about me all the way through."

"I know. Fuck," he swears. His hands are uncoordinated, twisting the shirt at my back, and deep, guttural groans leave his parted lips. I could get him off right here in the back of the limousine. Could make him come without even undressing him.

"If I fucked you right now, he'd notice, wouldn't he?" My lips hover over his ear, and my tongue darts out to trace his earlobe. He shivers. It's nonsensical, the way we can turn each other on. Anything. Toe sucking, thigh biting. Touch. As long as there's touch. "He'd notice you all slick and loose. He'd smell me _all_ fucking over you."

"Yes," he gasps, and I feel dark. Whatever it is, it's dark, a sensation deep in my guts. Wanting to be a presence that lingers on him wherever he goes. Making it impossible for him to forget. And, most of all, others could sense it too. Backing off, knowing that this one is off limits.

Why would he find any of this confusing? I've never known anything as crystal clear in my life.

He's hard as hell now, like I knew he'd be. I kiss him hard, my tongue pushing in, and I grind against him harder, faster, adding a circular movement that causes him to mumble incomprehensibly.

Then I stop.

He gasps for air, pupils blown. My hand slides down his side, feeling his taunt body, the way it curves, the muscle and bone. I remain above him but lift myself to lose the body contact. "I don't want this," I tell him, and he looks confused. "Getting you off on your break in the backseat of a car. We're not goddamned teenagers."

"It was working for me," he says, voice husky. "And, you know, this is a limo. That makes it all kinds of classy, it almost –"

"I want to fuck you. In my bed. Want you on your hands and knees, your hands bound to the headboard, and then I want to fuck you. For hours. Won't let you come no matter how close you get. Want to do it tonight. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Tonight. That's what I want." I swallow hard, reassemble my thoughts. "Thing is, you can't be in two places at once."

He's reached down to rub himself, clearly hoping to get off as I fill his head with visuals that drive me just as insane. I snatch his hand. "Nuh uh."

He groans in frustration. "You're such a prick."

"Can be, yeah." I stare down at him. Wait for an answer. "Come to my place after work."

I don't add please.

"Ry, I told you..." he whispers. I hope that he feels the longing that I feel. Of course – of _course_ – he does. He wouldn't have to stay all night, and he could come up with excuses. A co-worker had to go home early because they got sick, Brendon had to stay behind and cover for them, and so on, and so on. It comes down to what he chooses. Who he chooses. He says a quiet and breathless, "Alright."

Alright. Good choice. That's a damn fantastic choice.

"I'll be waiting, then," I tell him, ignoring the rather strong sense of accomplishment. Not like I'm surprised that he chose me.

We get out of the limo, him having fixed his appearance the best he can. "See you," he tells me, plain flirtatious and eyes sparkling. I smirk after him, my gaze focusing on his ass as he goes. God _damn_.

When the driver comes back, I nod after Brendon and say, "My dealer." The driver's expression clears up like it finally makes sense to him, what just happened, and he looks the tiniest bit relieved.

I stay by the doorway, watching him play. His shoulder blades move as his fingers dance over the keys, peaceful and beautiful. He hasn't switched on the lights, but an orange glow shines in from the street. The white bed sheet has looped around his waist. I must have fallen asleep, woken up in a dream.

He doesn't hear me crossing the room as he plays. The music woke me up in the first place. It's classical music, Chopin, and he's not just playing any piece by the Pole, but the one. The only piece of music that kept playing in my head for weeks after the crash: _Nocturne No.2 in E flat_.

It doesn't have the chilling effect on me that it once had. By playing it, he's attaching the music to something else. To this moment instead. And I much prefer this moment.

His fingers come to a graceful stop, gently resting on the keys. He stills like he stops existing when the music does. Ivory skin, ebony hair, and the shadows dance on the contours of his back.

"Hey."

He starts and looks over his shoulder. "Hi. Shit, sorry if I woke you, I –"

"I'm glad you did."

He smiles, looking embarrassed. "How long you been standing there?" He sounds shy, almost, his hands withdrawing from the keys. As I walk over, he reaches out to press a hand against my bare stomach, his thumb absently brushing the waistband of my boxers.

"Long enough." I brush stray hairs behind his ear. "You sound good."

"I'm really rusty."

"Could've fooled me. Move over." He obeys, and I sit on the bench next to him, our bare shoulders pressing together.

"I haven't gotten the chance to play in a long time," he says, still trying to explain it when he doesn't have to.

"Don't let me stop you," I say quietly. He hesitates for a second before his fingers land on the keys once more, and he begins to play. Not Chopin this time. Something else. Something his. I don't know how I know it, but I do. That this one, this particular one, he composed himself. It doesn't last for long, maybe a minute, his hands gliding over the keys masterfully, and then he stops like he doesn't remember the rest anymore. There's nothing he isn't amazing at. "You're a great pianist."

He shrugs like he's not so sure. "Dad taught me." His words sound strained. It takes an effort, mentioning his dad at all. I see him there: aged ten, crooked glasses, overgrown hair, sitting next to his dad on the bench the way we are now. He was trying to take in the information. Start from somewhere. _Für Elise_, most likely. He was trying so hard to get it right. Please his old man, who looked on with pride.

I press my nose against his shoulder, breathe him in. Let him know he's still here and he's fine. We shouldn't think about that man and what he did. What matters is where we are, and he's with me, and he's fine now.

"You should have it."

"Have what?"

"The piano." I press a kiss to his slightly clammy skin. "I'll give it to you."

He laughs softly. "I wonder what Shane would think of that."

I move closer to him, placing a trail of kisses from his shoulder to his neck and up to his cheek. He sighs placidly, turns his head towards me, his lips meeting mine softly. "He'd think that you've sure got one very appreciative lover," I whisper, our lips slowly brushing.

He smiles, his fingertips dancing on the back of my neck. "That's a theory."

I feel light-headed and well-grounded at the same time, a sensation of being stupid and carefree yet blessed as we laugh against each other's mouths. We don't talk about them. The others. Not really. We know they're there, of course we do, and we don't pretend they're not. It wouldn't be an affair if the others slipped our minds. If we could pretend it's just us. We get close to the point sometimes, but we've never fully crossed the line. Or at least he hasn't.

He focuses on the piano again, brows knitting together. I ask, "Was that your own music you just played?"

"Yeah."

"It was good."

He looks shy. "Thanks. With the documentary money coming in, I'm going to put some aside. Book a studio to do a proper demo this spring. I haven't had the time to jam with Ian in forever, but we'll get on it." It sounds like he wants me to know he's going somewhere with it all. That he has plans. Bartending might not be a huge step from waiting tables, but he's got a changed mentality now. Ideas brewing under his skin. I can sense it.

"Well, I know studios. If you want me to make a few calls –"

He instantly stops playing. "No." He sounds stern and his eyes narrow as he looks at me.

"No what?"

"No charity."

"It wouldn't be charity to help out a friend," I argue. "You're busy right now. You could do with a helping hand. I mean, there's the bartending, the documentary work, the gig promotion, then me..."

"You take up a lot of time," he smirks.

"Why rush a good thing?" I ask quietly with a kiss pressed to his jaw where the stubble tickles my lips.

"Maybe because I need to go home soon," he says. And I know. Of course I know, living on borrowed time. He's already late beyond a perfect excuse, and I wonder what he'll say, how he'll cover it up. He has to go. It always ends the exact same way.

"I'll give you money for a cab."

"Ryan –"

"It's late, you're late, and Brooklyn's far away." He looks displeased, and I press a random key to distract myself. "You think he'll give you a hard time for it?"

"He'll be pissed off." He sounds matter-of-factly and not particularly worried by the prospect. "Let's not talk about it, though." I have no problem with that. "And I can find my own way home."

"Just money for a cab, Bren."

He sits up straighter like he wants to appear taller than he is. "I don't need anyone to take care of me."

"I know that." My fingers meet his on the keys, and my thumb brushes over his knuckles. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't let me."

"Well," he says, getting up and grabbing the sheets, keeping them around his lower half. "You take care of my orgasms. That's doing a lot already as it is." He smirks down at me, and I let him cross the room, the dimples above his behind visible as the sheets pool down at his back. His bare feet barely make a sound as he moves.

The music room feels pathetically empty the second he leaves it.

When I join him, he's looking for his clothes in the bedroom, having discarded the sheet. I see his shirt peaking from under a pillow. The bed looks like it's been hit by an atom bomb. We made a mess. I love it when we do. He swears under his breath when he sees the time on the nightstand clock, but I don't feel guilty. Not really. I don't lose if he has a fight with Shane. On the contrary.

He looks like an apparition in my bedroom, and my gaze focuses on his perfect, pale ass. I smirk, reaching for the Polaroid camera that I haven't done anything with yet, simply having dumped it on top of the dresser on the day Shane gave it to me. "Hey," I call out, and Brendon turns around, hair sticking out all over. I snap his picture before he can react.

His eyes widen. "You did not just –"

"Polaroids. Your idea, huh?" I take the picture coming out at the front, still grinning.

"I'm _naked_."

"Oh trust me, I know."

"Give it to me!"

"No." I snap another.

It ends up in a scuffle and us rolling on the bed, laughing as he attempts to get the pictures from my grip, but I don't let him. Memories. Something to look at when he's gone. Just some proof. "You fucking cunt," he swears when he realises he's lost and is beneath me and still naked but now hard just like I am. We reach for each other simultaneously, the air full of the urgency of a half-desperate quickie.

A damn good anniversary if you ask me.

I am fifteen minutes late to Eric's Record Store on my first day, and I'm late on goddamn purpose.

Eric ended up making some concessions for my punishment. Although I tried, I couldn't weasel out of it altogether. He's put me to work in the original Eric's Record Store and none of the bigger ones that get more customers. This one is the safest option, although I fully resent twenty hours of honest work. Me? Slaving away like a commoner? Unheard of.

Vicky was appalled enough when she found out, and I could just say no. I could. But if I don't do it, the guys will never let me hear the end of it. Better deal with this punishment, get it over and done with, and tell them it was nothing. Emerge on the other side as victorious.

But what makes this spectacle even worse is that Shane Valdes is, for this lousy afternoon, my superior.

He doesn't act like it, thankfully, as he brings us cups of coffee from the backroom and shows me around the shop. It's a tiny place with past and upcoming tour posters on the walls, the small counter located in the back with the door to the backroom behind it, and everything in between is filled with records, new and second-hand. The second-hand ones are in unorganised stacks, but the new vinyl records are in alphabetical order. Shane emphasises how important Eric thinks it is.

"Bands starting with 'The' are in whatever comes after. So, The Followers, you will find in F." Shane pulls out our first album, stares at it in awe for a second, then snaps out of it and puts it away nervously. "Then artists go by surname. Harry Nilsson is in –"

"N."

"Exactly."

The job is a demotion, certainly, and I dread someone walking in and recognising me. It will happen. Of course it will, and if word spreads that I'm apparently working at Eric's, I'll end up dealing with fans all day long. That's the real punishment, and we all know it.

But at least I don't have to be in the studio. My so-called shifts are irregular, but they will take away studio time. I don't have to be there, snapping at Gabe that he's doing it wrong, telling Patrick that he's a talentless nobody and informing Jon that this is _not_ what we talked about.

The music isn't working out. We've put so much effort into the preparations, practising, fine-tuning, and now the sound we're producing is incongruous. It's like we've hit a brick wall. Bob keeps saying that he thinks it sounds good, but Jon was man enough to admit that it's not what he had in mind. Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's the music. We worked on it for so long that we outgrew it.

I don't know what we're doing wrong, and surprisingly, Eric's Record Store feels like a breath of fresh air. The store is empty because it's not open yet. Shane sits behind the counter, sipping coffee and clearly trying to wake up some. He looks exhausted. He's lost weight too. He's working himself to death, as he should. My cup rests on the counter as I stand on the other side.

"You know how to work the register?" Shane asks, and of course I do. "You need to write down whatever you sell here, that way we know which ones are selling and what we need to order more of." Shane sounds like he's stuck trying to think of what to say. He didn't have that problem when we first met, right on this same spot. He couldn't shut the fuck up. Back then I had no idea who he was. Back then Brendon was loyal to him for whatever reason. I didn't have much of a chance at first, but I prevailed. I won. I got the boy. Shane still hasn't realised it, doesn't have a clue, and that's exactly why I ended up winning. For being more observant. For being smarter.

He says, "I'd like to interview you sometime soon." He looks down at his coffee when he says it.

"There's no rush."

He falls silent like I killed the conversation he hoped to start. After an uncomfortable silence, he says, "I interviewed some of the fans that are staying outside the studio. I thought it'd add a nice contrast." He scratches his chin. "Some of them are kind of intense. I mean... some of them are really obsessed." He looks up with wondering eyes. "How does that make you feel?"

"Sounds like an interview question."

He laughs. "Yeah, I guess." He checks his wristwatch, and I see the small hand slowly getting closer to the hour. I haven't been up this early since 1969.

"So did you and Bren have a good anniversary last week?" I ask conversationally with enough boredom to indicate that our dead conversation is the only thing pushing me to ask about something as dull as Shane's boyfriend. Shane's expression darkens. "Aw," I say. "Don't tell me you had a fight."

Please, please tell me you had one hell of a row. I can only gain from their strained relations.

"It was nothing," he says, shrugging it off. Sure it was nothing, Brendon vanishing under the radar for unexplained hours. Maybe I can get Shane to leave Brendon – well, maybe. Shane keeps looking at Brendon so fucking adoringly that it's not likely. And I don't need them to break up, of course not. It hardly matters that they share a refrigerator and possibly a toothbrush. "He got stuck at work," Shane shrugs, and I fight off the self-satisfied grin. At work, was he? Brendon could get away with murder. "He made up for it, though." Shane's eyeing a copy of the staff list that he's taken out, focused on it while every hair on my skin seems to be sticking out suddenly.

"He did?"

"Yeah." Shane looks up eventually and seems surprised that I'm staring at him, waiting. "Oh. Um."

"I didn't mean to pry," I say instantly with a short laugh. "You don't wanna tell me, I get it. Not my business." I push just the right buttons, too, because Shane looks alarmed, worried that he's pissed me off when all he wants to do is please.

"He just prepared a romantic dinner for two the other night, that's all."

"That's... nice." I force out the words. Nice in the way that a lobotomy must be nice. "Roses and candles? The whole nine yards?"

"Yeah."

Roses, candles and the whole nine yards. The other night? But... Brendon said that he was working. I rake through my brain, and he _definitely_ said he would be working at the club, but now Shane is telling me that he wasn't. He was at home, winning Shane back over with roses, candles and the lot, like sweaty love-making and marinara sauce, attending to all of Shane's needs.

I asked Brendon if he was free. I ask him the same question about every damn day. He said he wasn't free because he was working. He lied. That's alright, we all lie, but he lied to _me_. Since when has he done that? Because there are the others, the ones we're fooling, and then there's us, who know the truth. The truth about me and him. The truth about us. Romantic dinners with Shane do not fit into that equation.

"Time to open up," Shane smiles, finishing the rest of his coffee. He rounds the counter and heads for the door, pushing hair behind his ears, and there's a bruise right there below his left ear. Brendon likes biting down there when he comes. I know that.

Shane knows that.

A few kids stroll into the shop, and Shane flips the Open/Closed sign.

He and I have more in common than I'm willing to admit.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 3: Mere Humans**

"Fuck," I swear. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!"

Unceremoniously and without warning, I grab the guitar with both hands and throw it onto the studio floor. It bangs loudly but doesn't break as it settles onto the ugly, striped rug. A string breaks, brushing against the others with a metallic sound. I put my hands on my hips and grit my teeth. The pain radiates up and down my arm, and I look through the glass to the control room where Jon, Greta and Bob look at me like they're not impressed.

"It wasn't meant to sound like that!" I try to explain, stepping away from the fucking microphones that are probably no longer recording, anyway. I march to the other side of the studio and sit on a tall stool, furiously going through my pockets for cigarettes.

"That's alright," Bob's voice comes through the speaker. "We'll take a break."

"Damn right we will," I mutter.

Gabe's off fucking one of his sluts – male or female, who knows – while Patrick is sleeping in the lounge. It might be morning outside for all I know. I came to the studio after sunset last night, and it's been hours and hours, useless, all of them. I take deep drags of the cigarette, the headache killing me, my arm killing me, but I say nothing of the physical pain. The emotional pain is pain enough, and they don't – They don't need to know about it. About the bad elbow.

The door opens slowly, and neither Jon nor Bob is visible through the window anymore. Greta is walking in, a hint of hesitance in her step. The hem of her dress moves gracefully around her ankles, locks of her hair falling to her shoulders over the red flower patterns. She looks upset, like a kid does when she first realises that his father or mother is drunk. It's a bad thing, being drunk. I'm not drunk. Had a few beers, sure, but not any more than Jon or Bob there, and were I inebriated, the pain wouldn't feel quite so bad.

Greta sits down on the stool next to mine, eyeing the room peacefully. "You alright?" she asks eventually.

"Don't I seem alright?" I counter venomously, though it's not her fault. She did some of her vocals a few hours back, and right now she seems like the only person who has come into the studio and recorded what they were meant to.

"No. You don't seem alright." She reaches out to grab my hand and pulls it to her lap. Her nimble fingers lace with mine, her hand warm and soft, my own bony and hard. She holds my hand with both hands, examining it, almost. My elbow throbs with pain as I extend my arm, but I don't let it show.

It's nothing a few pain killers can't sort out.

Spencer got a scar in the car crash. He hit his right temple when he fell out of his bunk, and that's why it seemed like his entire face was covered in blood. The cut wasn't deep or dangerous, but we didn't know that because he was unconscious. We just saw the blood. The other injuries were worse. They stitched him up and told him it'd leave a scar. I've never seen it because I haven't seen him, but when I close my eyes, it's there: a red line by his hairline, slowly fading year by year, but never vanishing completely. Those are the spoils he gained in the war. I got plenty of small cuts on my face: all the glass. Nothing permanent, though. And I thought I walked away with nothing to show for it, nothing but the cast and the physical therapy and then the physical therapist who quit when I told her to go fuck herself and threw the guitar at her after another failed attempt to barre a fucking fret.

Turns out I didn't get away with it that easy. My elbow showed no signs of protest during our practice sessions, not even after hours of messing around. Now, when it's every day, sometimes even for twenty straight hours that I'm locked in here, the pain's appeared. My fingers stumble. I make mistakes.

"Maybe you should take the day off. Tomorrow too," Greta suggests, but I know that I can't. The entire album recording halts if I'm not here. She's cradling my hand with her own, and it's doing wonders to relax me. Let some of the frustration pour out. She starts explaining that she's giving me a hand massage that she learned from her spiritual guide and that it helps tune in with the universe.

"I can't take the day off," I sigh to stop her from talking utter bullshit, still persistently smoking with my free hand.

"It's an escape for you, being here." She looks around the room. "Then you don't have to think about it."

I unwillingly pull my hand back. "Think about what?"

She shrugs. "I can't read minds." She grabs my hand again like she has decided to ignore my body language. "You've been so happy," she says and sounds slightly sad.

"It's just this album."

She hums agreeingly. She probably knows I'm lying, but I'm not. It's this album too, and not just whatever pathetic little turmoil occurs outside the studio.

I've been avoiding Brendon, and I know that. I need to keep my questions to myself because I know him, and he doesn't like questions. It just throws me off. I mean, when did he decide that we were just mere humans? Because I swear that for a while there we were gods. We were better than other people, we had an understanding. We spoke without words, and it was all crystal clear, perfect harmony. Me and him.

When he decided to lie, he should have done it like a god. Be smart enough for me to not find out. But he couldn't do it. He's just human. And if he's just human, then so am I.

It's disappointing beyond words.

"It's the fans outside, isn't it?" Greta then suggests sympathetically, and I nod. Sure it is. It's not like it's a mob, but maybe ten or so lost souls. Not always the same ones because even they have work and sleep, but they wait there for any of us, me the most. They keep sending random gifts into the studio: cakes, flowers, cards... One card said, 'I knew you weren't dead, Ryan.', and I'm not sure what that meant, if they meant musically dead or emotionally dead or physically dead. I put that card in my wallet in any case. Folded it real nice. Take it out sometimes: a kid out there knows I'm not dead. That's something. That counts.

I'm not yet an endangered species, but I feel like one.

"Cheer up," Greta says with a warm smile. "They're only excited, that's why they camp out there. We're all really excited. Anything you do is going to be amazing."

I laugh emptily at that, and she frowns like that's not what she wanted. I don't want to make her feel like shit on top of everything else, so I say, "Thanks, Greta. Glad someone has faith in me." I tug her closer, and she smiles as she stands up and leans in for a hug. Maybe that hand massage wasn't weed induced mumbo jumbo after all – some of the stress has definitely left my system.

The studio door opens behind Greta's back, and Bob steps in. It's only when Keltie follows that I detach myself from Greta swiftly, and knowing that Greta would remain in my space with no apprehension, I stand up, a hand on Greta's hip guiding her further away from me. Keltie's smile has vanished, walking into the studio to find me cuddling with the guest star.

"She said it was urgent," Bob explains as an introduction and then leaves. He gives me an 'oh you rock stars' look, clearly thinking that I'm boning both of the women in the room. One for each finger. He flees as he thinks a shit storm is about to take place.

"Kelts," I say with too big a smile. "What are you doing here?"

She looks like a mess, her usually neat appearance contrasted to her current look of a bomb having exploded on her. Her hair is a mess and she looks distressed, and it's only then I notice the huge bag she's carrying. "My apartment's flooded," she says, voice quivering. "I woke up this morning, and when I got out of bed, there was this- this splash and –" She cuts herself off like the memory of it will make her cry any second. "All my belongings, all my..." Her voice fades as she pales to a sickly white.

"Oh, that's horrible! You poor thing!" Greta exclaims, clutching my arm for dramatic effect. "Sit down! Come on, I'll make you some tea!"

Keltie looks like she'd rather not have Greta dote on her, but then she seems too tired to care. Keltie still doesn't seem to understand that Greta is too nice to cheat on Butcher, even if I were willing, which I'm not, for the record, but Greta's genuine worry isn't the reaction of a mistress, and even Keltie seems to get that in her anguished state.

"Shit, that's... shit," I say, taking Keltie's bag and escorting her to the control room. She plops down on the leather couch, a hand dramatically resting on her forehead as she closes her eyes. Greta's vanished to the lounge, and I lean against the mixing desk and take in my worried girlfriend.

"I tried calling you," she says.

"You thought I'd be at home?"

"It's eleven o'clock, so yeah, I thought you'd be asleep."

I almost laugh before my eyes land on the clock on the wall: quarter past eleven. I thought it was seven in the morning, maybe, but no. I've been in the studio for fourteen hours. That explains at least some of the frustrated anger bubbling in my guts.

"Then I tried calling here to see if you were recording, but the receptionist said that she wasn't at liberty to say, and I told her who I was, but –" Her voice wavers threateningly, so I quickly cut her off.

"I'll make damn sure that any calls from you get noted in the future, alright? Come on, now, it's not too bad." I move to sit on the couch next to her, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. "We'll find you a nice hotel. I'll pay for it. The nicest hotel in town, any place you want."

"But I –" She wipes her cheeks. "I thought I could stay with you."

"...And then there's always that option! Sure!" I kiss the side of her head, smell the rosy scent of her shampoo. Sure. Great. "How long did, um. When will your place be unflooded again, I mean?"

"I don't know. They said they weren't sure if it was just one pipe or if they all need to be redone. A few months, they said."

Oh. Okay.

"It'll all work out, baby. Don't you worry your pretty head with it." I keep up the monologue of assurances as she snuggles into me, soon sipping the tea that Greta brings through for her. Keltie's shoes look drenched, like she waded in water on her way over here. I promise to make a call to Vicky. It's my solution to every problem: making it Vicky's problem. She'll have Keltie's belongings rescued and dried and replaced or whatever needs to be done. I don't like seeing Keltie this upset about anything. And Vicky will make damn sure that Keltie's apartment is as good as new in a matter of weeks – not months. Don't care how much that costs me.

Keltie provides me with a reason for a day off, however, without it looking like I'm abandoning the project. Bob and Jon both nod like my place is at Keltie's side right now, and Bob calls the receptionist, who calls for the security guy to clear the way and for the chauffeur to bring the car around. Maybe a day off isn't such a bad idea. God knows my arm needs it.

Keltie and I wait in the control room to be informed when the car's outside. She goes through her bag to find a hair brush and proceeds to straighten her blonde locks while I sit on Bob's chair by the mixing desk. It's an awkward silence between us, and I'm not sure why. I wish the others had stayed.

"So what did I walk in on earlier?"

"Come again?" I ask, and Keltie sighs heavily and puts her hands into her lap, her shoulders slumped. She's usually full of a dancer's graceful poise.

"With Greta."

"Keltie," I say warningly as I shake my head. "We've had this conversation." She remains silent because she knows that I already have heard whatever is going through her mind. "One of these days," I say, getting out a cigarette and lighting it, "you're gonna have to start trusting me."

"It's them I don't trust," she argues.

"Which would be inconsequential if you trusted me."

Her brown eyes focus on the cigarette. "You know you always smoke when you're nervous."

"No, I always smoke," I correct her, but then leave it be. Neither one of us wants a fight right now. We don't even fight, really – some arguments or disagreements, sure. I've made her cry, and she's made me feel like shit in return, but we've always been a rather harmonious couple. Her irrational fears and my affair aside, I think we're pretty alright.

"I'm gonna go clean myself up a little," Keltie says, getting up with a small mascara tube in her grip. I keep smoking – not nervously but languidly – as she exits the control room. I turn around in the chair and look at Bob's buttons and switches, and then over the desk and into the now empty studio. The room of disappointment. I wonder what it feels like, sitting here hours on end and getting a shit take after another. Me playing the first verse and then fucking up or stopping because it sounds wrong. Bob's demonstrating infinite patience. Inside he must be this close to offing himself.

The door opens behind me, and I ask, "Good to go?"

"You sure don't waste time," a voice says jocularly, and I'm only slightly startled that Brendon's in the studio. Not like the first time he's been here – maybe the third now, what with the crew documenting our epically proportioned failures.

I turn around in the chair, and he's smiling at me like you smile to someone you want to do dirty fucking things to and, what's more, know that you're full well allowed to, too. At least he thinks he is.

"Hey." I stub the rest of my cigarette to Bob's full ashtray. "What you doing here?" My eyes are focused somewhere on the floor between us.

"Coming to set up for later."

"Ah, no one's told you? We won't be recording later. A day off." He frowns because there are no days off, and I could tell him about Keltie's apartment or my veteran arm, but I do neither. I let my fingers run through my hair, getting the locks out of my face. He's got a bit of stubble on his chin. Looks fucking good on him. "I was just about to head home."

"Oh." He gets rid of the initial confusion quickly. "Well, in that case, I'm free as well." He smiles with the perfect amount of insinuation in it.

I stand up and stuff my hands in my pants pockets. "I'm going home with Keltie, actually. She's staying with me for a few weeks."

Something like a frown flickers on his face, but then it's gone. He can hide it well, whatever he's feeling. He can flick emotions on and off like a switch. Doesn't matter who he's with: a stranger or me. I, well, I can't do that. I didn't realise I was expected to do that. He doesn't need to worry. I'm catching up quickly: just an affair. An insignificant damn thing where we can lie to each other freely and without guilt.

"I'll catch you later then, yeah?" I offer, but as I try to get past him through the door, he steps in front of me, the frown now back. His lips part, but nothing comes out. It's not a good sign if he needs to carefully calculate his words. "Did you want something?"

"Well, I – What's going on?" His hand has settled on my hip, and it feels like it's all my body and brain can focus on: his fingers slide on the fabric, taking a firm hold.

"Keltie's apartment got flooded. Old pipes..." I shrug. It feels like my body is filled with a burn slowly scorching me from the inside.

"No, I mean – We've. We've seen each other once during the past two weeks, and even then it was... I mean, you were." He looks for the right word before he settles on, "A bit rough. Not that I – You know I love it when you are. But you were... distant."

"Well," I say, stepping away from his touch and feeling a pain much stronger than what my arm's been taunting me with. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm trying to record an album here."

"I know that," he says in a 'don't insult me' tone, his brows knitting closer together, and the fire in me mixes with a sickening sensation. And no, this isn't what I want either. I don't want to be going home with Keltie, but with him, and I'm tired, so fucking tired of this studio and these songs and these people and this invisible shard of glass sticking out of my chest. "If you're going to be like that, then fine," he says.

"Well, okay."

"Okay." He crosses his arms.

"Fine."

"Yeah."

"See you la –"

He pulls me in for a kiss out of nowhere, a dirty kiss where he pushes his body against mine, his hands on the sides of my face and moving into my hair, locking me in place. I kiss back automatically, my nostrils suddenly full of his scent. His lips move over mine, his tongue darting out to brush against my bottom lip, the signal for me to open up and deepen the kiss, but I don't obey. "Ryan." His voice sounds oddly choked. "Fuck, don't tell me you're done with me."

I pull back. "What?"

He looks perfectly serious. He thinks that I suddenly don't want him anymore? Well, that's just wrong. That's fucked up.

"Why would you –" Stupid. Stupid fucking boy. "Don't think shit like that."

"Well, what am I supposed to think?" he asks in a challenging tone, but I don't want to fight him. Fuck, we're not on the same page at all if he genuinely thinks that.

I still place a quick kiss on his lips but he clings onto me, pulling me in like he needs to feel me kiss him. His lips part, and I can't resist it, my tongue sliding into his mouth. He wraps his arms around my neck, constantly seeking more contact, coaxing my mouth open more until the lion in me roars, and I pull him in. He lets out a short moan at the back of his throat, kissing me fiercely, but I don't want us to be just this. And if this is all that this is...

I keep my hands on his narrow hips, pressing my fingers in as I break the kiss. My nose slides across his cheek, and I inhale deeply. "I just need a bit of time right now. There's stuff I need to figure out."

His arms have moved down to wrap around my waist, and it feels like we're standing a bit too close right now. He sighs. "You know you can talk to me. If you're not okay."

Sure. That'd be interesting.

"I'll see you later," I say, detaching myself. He looks lost, but I'm not much of an explorer right now. He'll have to figure it out for himself. Maybe we all just need to stick to helping ourselves.

"Okay then." He fidgets and tries to appear calm, but rejection is visible all over him. He looks over my shoulder at nothing at all. "I miss you. Just so you know."

Something in my chest expands so much and so quickly that I actually feel short of breath, but I push it out of my mind, my system. He misses the sex. Great.

I smile politely as if to say 'thanks, that's nice'.

The limousine waits outside when Keltie and I leave the building, and I don't think of how confused Brendon looked getting left behind in the studio. Keltie hunches down as I keep my arm around her shoulders, and the fans scream and jump, the handful of them, behind the security guy's outstretched arms, like he's an albatross about to take off.

I think nothing of anything until Keltie's holding the sheets in her hands. She's stripped down to a tank top and a pair of my boxers she found in the drawer. Jac also used to do that: help herself to my clothes. I'd mention it if my ex-girlfriend didn't piss Keltie off. Look, it's simple: had Jac been all that, we wouldn't have split up, would we? Still, it's never advisable to compare a past companion to a current one. We don't want to fear that the past is not so past perfect after all. Or, in my case, there is no past tense at all. A double present. Both the same. Nothing distinguishing between them.

I tug my tie off like I'm pissed off at it, getting ready to go to bed. I haven't slept properly in days: a few naps every now and then in the studio or in the limo.

"Have you gotten new cologne?" Keltie asks. She's sniffing my sheets.

"No."

"Your sheets smell like –"

"I mean yes. Yeah. Yes, I have."

She nods slowly, still frowning before it dissolves into a sunny smile. "I like it." She gets into the sex-stained sheets, and here's hoping she plans to sleep and not go through every inch square of bedding for come stains because she might be offended that I seem to jack off obscene amounts behind her back. We try not to be too messy, of course, but two guys and multiple rounds, and sometimes Brendon just comes a lot.

Now Keltie lies where Brendon did the last time we saw each other in the capacity in which we always see each other. Was I too rough on him? I don't remember. I took him hard. Wanted to fuck him through the mattress. He certainly didn't complain, just said 'Don't bruise' at some point, and I told him to shut up and fucked him twice as hard. After he came, it took him a long time to come down. He kept shivering.

I'm down to a pair of boxers when I join Keltie in bed. My muscles are aching, my body begging for a bit of rest. The painkillers will kick in soon – I went through Keltie's bag when she was in the bathroom, found those could-kill-a-horse painkillers that she got for her sprained ankle last fall. She's always worried that she will injure herself in a way that will ruin her career. She worries about a lot of things.

She presses into my side, her legs brushing mine. She's small. She's curved. Her breasts press against me, and god, she's so oddly shaped.

"Thanks for letting me stay here," she whispers.

"Of course, baby. Stay as long as you like."

Need to make that call to Vicky.

She shuffles, and I forgot how she radiates warmth, how soft she is all over. Her legs are smooth, freshly shaven. "How's the album going?"

"It's not."

"I'm sorry." She sounds sorry, too. "Maybe you need to... get out of the studio. Seems to me like you're all just driving yourselves insane in there."

"Maybe," I agree. She might be right. She often is, almost about everything. I let out a deep breath, my fingers absently moving in her hair. "That might be a good idea. I feel like I need to get out of the city for a while."

"You're finally taking me to Paris, then?"

"Smart ass," I say and gently poke her arm. She giggles, and I add, "The buildings are too... tall. You know? My music can't flow freely because there's no room. Everything is deluged by people and noise and –"

"Water."

"– and water, yeah! Just think about your place, ruined like that. That's shit, that is. There's just... too much of everything in this town. And I'm a seasoned musician, you know. If I find it suffocating, just imagine what it's doing to someone like Patrick," I reason, extending my anxiety onto our drummer who might not share my feelings at all. He probably doesn't. Even as I speak, I know my band shares none of my sentiments. I just miss going with the flow instead of analysing every fucking thing, every chord change and time signature – I never had to do that before. But now it's an endless game of everything meaning something. Every word, every kiss, every touch. It's a competition of lies versus truths, lovers versus partners, wolves versus hearts.

It's not that he's fucking Shane. It's that he treats me like some toy he can put in the corner when he doesn't need it, and then take it back out again when he's bored. That he thinks I can be used like another Shane. And that's it? That's _all_?

"I need to get out of this place," I exhale. "And if the music doesn't work out, I guess I can always work for Eric."

Keltie laughs. "Oh, yeah. How many hours have you still got?"

"Six. Thank god. The kids are catching on, you know. I spent half the time signing albums last time, and it's not like a concert, I can't just leave, and they take it as an invitation to stay indefinitely, hovering around me. Gives me fucking shivers. They're like leeches. Followed me for four blocks before I got into a taxi."

She laughs again, and I feel a smile appearing on my face. I don't remember the last time I did anything like this with her. She's wonderful because she's not playing anyone at all. That's why I liked her in the first place. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and I never have to second-guess a thing. I know what she's thinking and feeling, I know what she wants, how she feels about me... She loves me. She says it, but not too often. She doesn't like wearing it out. She'll just slide it in to the end of a phone conversation, an 'I love you' before the line dies, but not every single time.

I _can_ be loved. The fans, well, they don't know me, do they? So sometimes I wonder about those closer to me, and Keltie is living proof that it can be done.

It's good to know because sometimes I wonder.

"I love you," she whispers, pressing a sleepy smile to my chest.

I wrap the covers tighter around us and finally let myself get some sleep.

"Bismarck."

"You mean old Otto?" Jon asks, and I shake my head, trying to conduct this band meeting with style. Out of the studio, just like Keltie said. It was a good idea.

"Not the German guy, I mean the capital of North Dakota." We're gathered in the bar closest to the studio, and my bandmates look confused. Shane is by the table with a heavily bearded teddy bear-like man whose name I didn't care to learn but whose title is the First Assistant Cameraman or something alike. It's good some of the film crew are present – this affects them too. "My old man's got a hunting cabin just an hour's drive from Bismarck. He used to go up there every winter when I was a kid, get some quality killing in. It was a shithole, but when he got hospitalised for good last year, I figured that he's never gonna see his old log cabin again, and so I had it done up. I haven't been there, but the contractors took some pictures for me. It's real nice now. Actually looks pleasant, and I- Well, I think us, the band, should go up to the cabin. Just us, the woods, the nature... There'll be snow this time of year. We take our guitars. We figure out these songs. If we don't, fuck 'em, we'll write new ones. We'll take the shitty radio from my kitchen and a handful of tapes, record the rough versions live right there. We stay there until the album is on tape. Then we fly back to New York and record the songs in a three takes max. It's that simple."

They look at me like I'm insane, but I don't think I am. New technology is spoiling us. Not too long ago everyone was stuck with four-tracks, but now we can add dozens and dozens of layers. It's too much fuss. Let's strip it down slightly, go back to basics. I know I've got a lot of acoustic songs in the works, but I'm not making a folk album. Folk is dead. I'm making a stripped down rock album. And I don't want to play the same songs dozens of times to make it perfect. Perfection is unattainable, so I'm giving us three takes to get it right. That's it. That's all.

"Well," Gabe says, "vamonos, eh?" He grins. He's always up for anything. Patrick just nods because it's not like he gets a say, really. He does as he's told. It's Jon that I need to convince, and he looks less than thrilled by my idea.

I say, "The music isn't working. We stay here, we'll end up killing each other."

Jon rubs his chin. "Well... when would we leave? And how long would we be away for?"

"We start getting this ready straight away, so I say... we should be able to leave town in a few weeks. And once there, I don't know. Two or three weeks."

Jon looks like spending three weeks away from Cassie is a bit too much. He's been domesticated. How does he expect to tour come summer if he can't take three weeks without his better half? Plans to take Cassie on tour, probably.

"If you think that this is something we've got to do," Jon says, voice heavy like the words are unpleasant to utter. "If you think this is necessary, absolutely necessary, then... okay."

"That's settled then." To make it official, I lift my whisky glass and finish it off in one go, making a show of placing it back to the table.

We're going. Good. Finally. I've been in this city for too long. I can feel it in the way people look at me.

"Up until then, gentlemen, we're free men. Let's get trashed," I say, and Gabe instantly goes to the bar and soon returns with their most expensive spirits. All on me, of course. Shane keeps trying to engage me in conversation about what this means for the documentary, but I ignore his worried words. Let him sort it out with Vicky.

I don't intend to stay in the bar either – let the boys have some down time without the boss. I steal a cigarette from Jon and bid them goodnight. "I hope not to see you soon," I say, a captain abandoning his ship, but we all need a break from one another. We know that.

"I'll come out for a smoke with you," Gabe says, and I lift an eyebrow because he can smoke indoors where the booze and good company is, but I shrug. I leave my band plus director and cameraman person in a pleasant state of tipsiness, feeling like the weight of the world has been lifted off me. I don't need to go to the studio tomorrow. I can breathe more easily.

Gabe steals my lighter outside the bar, ignites the tip of his Marlboro and then pockets the lighter with no intention of giving it back. "So," he says, taking in a deep drag. "Heard Keltie's moved in with you."

"Temporarily, yeah."

"Well, that must complicate things a bit, am I right?" A smile flickers on his lips, but I don't return it. Instead I look over his shoulder like the facade of the building opposite is endlessly intriguing. He continues with, "What with her constantly breathing down your neck now, noting any mysterious absences..."

He wants me to say it. Not sure why my confirming any of his suspicions is so important to him. And if I said that yeah, oh boy, he sure is right, then what would I be agreeing to?

"Aw, come on. I give you all the details," he pouts. "I mean, _all_ of them, from that girl who had never gotten head to that guy who was hung like a horse. And Brendon. God, _Brendon_." He lets out a low whistle, which I suppose indicates approval. "That mouth of his, and my god, that _ass_ and those_hips_, I wouldn't mind slipping one in myself, let me tell –"

"Gabe. Be careful with what you say next."

He laughs good-naturedly, not taking me seriously. "Why? Come on, Ryan! I bet he can be so attentive in bed, he seems the type. Bet he's a good boy."

He is, Gabe's spot on, but that doesn't stop me from suddenly shoving him, my palms flat against his chest. He stumbles backwards a step or two from the sudden blow. His cigarette falls from his lips as he stares at me wide-eyed. I'm as surprised by my actions as he is, and I quickly drop my gaze, ashamed of myself.

He keeps staring at me. "Fuck... Sorry."

All of my muscles are tense, and it's not anger that bubbles within me, but frustration. What's he saying? That I'm lucky to have Brendon? That Brendon looks like he needs a handful of action from several men to be happy? That I'm not enough for him or that that's all I am for him?

"You just stay away from Brendon, alright?"

Gabe looks awkward. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't. I didn't get that it... I mean, I didn't mean to be disrespectful or –"

"It's just. It's not a conversation topic."

"Yeah. Got it." He looks like he really wants to go back inside now and keep drinking, but he doesn't want it to look like he's fleeing the scene. "I don't look at him like that, anyway," he laughs.

"Yeah, you do." Any bisexual or gay guy in the world would look at Brendon like that.

"I'll stop, then," he says, as if he now realises that he's been out of line picturing Brendon with no clothes on, and his tone suggests that my fleeting use of physical force was more aggressive than I realised, that something in my eyes managed to place a seed of actual fear in Gabe.

"He just – Brendon doesn't need. I mean I'm not with him," I argue before Gabe thinks that I'm making statements here. There is nothing between us that could be labelled as anything. It's nothing concrete. It's constantly shifting, and I don't want Gabe thinking that I have Brendon if tomorrow Gabe sees Shane canoodling with him and me standing in the corner, head drooping, the idiot who thought he had more than he did. "Think whatever you want," I amend uneasily, "but don't say it to my face. He's a person, not a piece of meat."

"Sure. Alright. I didn't realise," he mumbles, and he's not referring to Brendon's sudden existence as a person of substance in addition to his sex on legs appeal, but that he didn't realise the other half of the deal. The part about me. I don't want to have that conversation.

"Don't worry about it. Look, it's nothing. I'm sorry I pushed you. C'mere, man." I pull him for a quick one-armed hug, patting his back a few times as he does the same. A quick apology without having to say that I'm sorry. "We alright?" I ask as I pull back.

"Top notch, Ry. Top notch." He smiles, but he has none of the cockiness in it. He looks at me in a way he has never looked at me before, and he doesn't seem to know what to make of it, but then the smile slowly reaches his eyes too. He likes being in on the joke.

A girl is going through the M's, and the vinyl I put on finished twenty minutes ago, but I can't be bothered changing it. "Do you have the Menace album?" she asks me after a while. She's the only customer in the shop.

"I don't know. Check?" I offer unhelpfully, not bothering looking up from the newspaper I found lying around. None of the current affairs interests me, but I am two hours away from freedom, from my temporary employment being over, which isn't close enough. That's two hours of another potential fan invasion if any of the loonies decide to drop by. The newspaper at least stops me from staring at the door like I'm waiting for a gunman to come in blasting. I hope no one wants to buy records on a Wednesday afternoon apart from this one miserable soul, and that the next person who walks through the door is Eric, who's got a late afternoon shift. He's coming to release me from this prison. He'll be my messiah. That's probably what he wanted.

The girl eventually finds what she's looking for, and I sell the record to her, freezing halfway of stuffing the cover with Joe Trohman's face on it into a paper bag. Joe's cut his hair short and is posing in the centre, equipped with an electric guitar hanging around his rock and roll posed body. He looks fierce in a red one-piece, and someone has finally convinced him to shave his chest hair. That person needs to be thanked.

"Um. Can I have the record?" the girl asks, lifting an eyebrow at me.

I blink. "Yeah. Sure."

Wherever I go, Joe will be there, haunting me. His album's been selling well. He gets airplay, interviews, European tours. He gets to be the star with his 'yeah, yeah, baby' songs of zero meaning or purpose. That's menace right there. He probably still thinks I'm a faggot, too. God, he'd die laughing if he knew.

The bell to Eric's Record Store rings after the girl, and a minute later two guys walk in, and I draw my hat further over my eyes and try to not exist behind the counter. Eric, come save me from this shithole...

I need to stop gambling. I need to not do a lot of things. I need to stop counting days.

Bismarck's getting sorted out now. Our retreat isn't as quick as I'd hoped, we're not going for a few weeks yet, but the tickets were purchased this morning and it's on. I haven't been in that cabin since I was thirteen. I don't even know why I had it renovated – I should've just bought myself a new place if I so desperately wanted a cabin of my own.

I haven't seen Brendon in nearly a week. He's clearly giving me time, even though it was obvious he couldn't understand why I needed it. Maybe it's not even hard for him to do – he gets to spend time with Shane without having to lie about it. I wouldn't even know if he did decide to call me. I'm not at home. Except for how he wouldn't call because Keltie conversely is there. He wouldn't want her picking up. I'm not calling him either, or visiting his club or seeing him at the studio, and it's so easy to slip into this silence.

I've already done this once, but this time it's not because I have no other options. I could see him if I wanted to. And I want to, but I just can't see what we'd be doing, me being on page seventeen and him on page nine, and Shane, well, he's probably on page three or thirteen. I haven't made my mind up about it yet.

"Put some music on, man," one of the customers calls out.

"Not your servant," I call back, and they glare and mutter amongst themselves. They go back to flipping through records. They look at a Canadian History album for a long time and talk about Jon, and then about me a little, too, since rumour has it Jon is in my band now. They don't realise I'm in the room: a hat and sunglasses. It's all any refugee would ever need.

The guys keep browsing when the door opens again, that annoying goddamn bell ringing. I take in the new arrival, and then lean into the counter more, flipping onto a new page and focusing on the news. I don't think I'm ready for this. He stays by the door for a few seconds, looks at me, looks at the guys, before he goes to the 7" section to look at singles. I feel his eyes on me every now and then, and it's beyond distracting.

"Hey, what's that song they keep playing on the radio?" the other guy now asks me and starts humming and whistling out of tune. I vaguely make out a half-sensible melody.

"Fleetwood Mac. The F's." I point him to the right direction. "It's on the new album."

They make me put the record on, even, nodding by the counter as Lindsey starts singing that "loving you isn't the right thing to do –", guitar riff, "– how can I ever change things that I feel?" I nervously tap the counter, and he's by the S's now, pretending to be damn interested in _Bookends_. "If I could, maybe I'd give you my world –", more guitar, fucking predictable, "How can I when you won't take it from meee?"

"That's enough of his relationship problems," I decide, but the guys both buy their own copies of the album, one on vinyl and the other on tape, and they grudgingly thank me for what clearly was inadequate customer service in their humble opinions.

The bell rings as they exit the store, and I focus on my newspaper once more.

"Hey."

I look up to see a forced smile on his face, though he's trying hard to make it genuine. He looks well. I wanted him to look like shit. Been a week. He's not alright, I see that instantly, but he's not as bad as I wanted him to be. He scoffs, and I ask, "What?"

"Wearing sunglasses inside. Very Dylanesque of you."

"For your information, I'm in danger out here. Fans are nuts. Remember that stalker of Dylan's that stole his garbage and wrote a book about it?"

"Oh, yeah, I can see how an empty record store is equally dangerous."

It seems like he's trying to pick a fight, but at least he came all the way here to do it. He cracked before I did. Okay. That's already one victory.

I make a show of slowly removing my sunglasses. It's not like he doesn't know it's me. I place them carefully on the counter, already missing my shield. "So where should we go fuck?" I ask.

"Sorry?"

"Well, that's what you're here for, right? I mean, we've got some sleazy hotels around. My place is off limits now that Keltie's staying there, so... any bright ideas?"

"I didn't – That's not why I'm here. I wanted to talk to you."

"Is that what we're calling it now?"

He looks insulted, and his brows knit together. "Okay, what is – I mean. I've been... giving you time. Like you wanted. I thought that the recording and the stress were... But then Shane told me that you're leaving town, and you never told me, so I – I really don't know what's going on. With us."

His voice is uncharacteristically apologetic. His eyes are doleful as he looks at me, all confused innocence like that's meant to make my heart melt. Because that's what works on Shane. He thinks I'm him. That we're similar. That the same party tricks work on both of us.

He stares at me. "Did I _do_ something?"

"No. Yes. I mean no."

"Okay, I don't _understand_ what –"

"Yes! Yeah, actually. Yes. Because I thought we had an understanding. I thought you thought more of me than – than whatever you clearly think. And don't think your sad eyes work on me just because they work on your boyfriend. Because here's the newsflash, alright? You ready? I'm _not_Shane. I'm not – not this oblivious fucking guy who can't see what's right in front of his eyes! And I'm more than convenient sex. I'm not stupid, and I will know when I'm being lied to –"

"I haven't lied!" he objects, finally doing something other than trying to be sweet or disgruntled. Brendon is not sweet. He never was. "I don't – Convenient sex? Have I said that? God, where is this coming from?"

"You have lied. Fuck, just admit it. Or maybe it's such second nature with you that you don't even notice! What else can be expected from someone who's been making up pasts for himself since he was fifteen, huh?"

He grits his teeth like he can't believe I went there. "You always have to –" he snaps, cutting himself off, hands in fists. Oh, I know just what buttons to push. I know, I know. I'm talented that way. He takes in a calming breath like he refuses to come down to my level. He hasn't realised it yet: we're down in the gutter, him and I. We're not graceful. We're not beautiful. We're not even right: we're lying and sinning and loving it. "Right, so it's about Shane, is it?" he asks with finality like we've finally concluded what the problem is.

"No! God, no. It's not about _Shane_." I have to hold back a scoff. "Shane can fuck you every two hours for all I care! Because I don't. Care, that is." He doesn't reply, just looks at me the way he used to back on tour when I snapped at a fan or did something he generally thought was an asshole move on my part. All the others let me get away with it. He never did. But I can sense that somehow his thoughts right now are _fuckshitfuck_ as he Poirots the situation and gets it, but I hope he knows that it's not Shane or what they did or any of that insignificant crap, but the bigger picture.

"You know you're not exactly the poster boy of honesty either!" he then barks, and I've got nothing. I have been straight with him, and I am clueless as to what he's on about. He lowers his voice a little. "Why didn't you tell me your dad's hospitalised? Huh? I mean, I had to hear it from Shane. Imagine how stupid I felt standing there. All this time, and you never said a word!"

"How is that at _all_ related to _anything_?"

"It is! You always think that everyone's out to get you! You're telling me to be honest when you're not letting me in, and it should be a two-way street, Ryan!"

It should be? _What_ should be? God, can he not just say it?

"Right, because my old man dying in a tiny hospital room is about _you_."

"That's not what I'm saying! I'm just – You just have never said a word of it when that must be..." He sighs heavily. "I mean, what's wrong with him?"

"What isn't?" I counter. "Fucked up his liver, hasn't he? No one's surprised. No one's calling the press. Don't go thinking for a second I want to talk about it. I pay the hospital bills. That's all I know, and that's all I care to know. Don't bring this up again, you hear me?"

"Because I take orders from you," he says sardonically, looking at me like I'm filth. "You know what, Ryan? It's time to grow the fuck up." He marches to the door, and there he is, my Brendon. That's the person that I know. This is what we are, hungry canines tearing each other apart.

"That's mature, Bren! That's great! You walk away!" No response. "I'll send you a postcard from Bismarck, then! Signed by yours truly! Well, that's fine! That's just fine!" Everything inside me is spinning fast like a crazy whirlpool. He still doesn't react. "Have a nice life!"

He stops at the door, and the anger is practically glowing off of him, visible in the tensed muscles of his shoulders. He turns around slowly, fuming. "How about you give me a call when you decide to stop acting like a bitch, alright? And _don't_!" he adds, like he can sense my ingenious riposte about him being the bitch in this relationship. "Don't say anything. You just fuck off to Bismarck for a goddamn month! Maybe the fresh air will knock some sense into you."

"Oh, I need sense to be knocked into me, do I? That's news. Wow, that's a refreshing perspective, thanks for the input!"

"Fuck off," he barks. He swirls around, and I busy myself by murderously shoving Lindsey's new record back into its sleeve, rounding the counter to take it back to the F's. The bell doesn't ring, though – instead Brendon's steps are now incoming, and I slip the LP somewhere in the C's, ready for round two. "Why do you have to be such a cunt?" he hisses, and I turn to him with my eyebrows raised, the storm in me now at the point of heavy rain, furious lightning, perhaps a tornado in the works. "You bring out the worst in me, you know that?"

"It's not hard to do."

He lifts an accusing finger and points it at me. "I'm not coming back."

"That's probably for the best. I'm sure someone can fill my shoes easily enough."

He looks shocked that his threat had no affect on me. "Fuck, what are you –" He almost pulls his hair, fingers crooked, all anger and confusion. "Maybe we're in a need-to-know basis here! Did that occur to you?" he snaps. "Lies aren't – They're not about taking the piss out of people. Half the time they're about protecting people! Although for you they're clearly just about protecting yourself. And if I wanted convenient sex, I would _not_ be coming to you. You're anything but convenient, so you think about that. You fucking hypocrite." He makes for the door, and I lean against the raised table behind me, my insides feeling weakened. I don't know, I just don't know anymore.

He slows down. He comes to a stop. He's not moving. He's standing there, not moving, and I dare a look at his back, the way he's hanging his head. Everything hurts, and I didn't want this, don't know what the hell I wanted or intended.

"You bring out the worst in me too," I say quietly. Also the best, I think, but I don't tell him that.

"Yeah, that's the most beautiful part," he laughs, sounding sad, and it pierces right through me. He might be wiping his cheeks. I can't tell for sure, but he wouldn't be here if it was insignificant to him. I just had to know. "Fuck..." he says so quietly I barely hear it. I've made my way over, my hands hovering an inch from his hips, unsure.

He breathes unsteadily. "I'm sorry. That I lied. I didn't mean to – But you're impossible, Ryan, you can't just not say anything and then attack me when I don't even know why we're fighting, and –"

I take the decisive step to hug him from behind, and he starts as I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him to my chest. My nose presses against the shell of his ear, and he relaxes against me, his hands moving down to rest over mine. Nuzzling him a little, I find my voice again. "I'm not very good at this."

He laughs. "Yeah. Clearly."

But he doesn't object. He doesn't object when I take us from an abstract level, a fleeting thought in my head, to a concrete level instead. He agrees. That it exists.

It's not just me.

"God, Ryan," he breathes out, still sounding hurt. I press a soft kiss right behind his ear. Don't want to talk. I press another, more lingering. His breathing quickens. I'm trying to apologise.

The bead curtain of the backroom rattles when we find our way across the store, and the floor is hard but it doesn't matter. He says, "I missed you," voice husky, strained, choked up, and I keep kissing his stomach, our clothes having disappeared fast. He moves like every second is a second too long. Our hands are urgent, our lips hungry, and I keep pressing my fingers hard against his skin, watching the whitened imprints fade when I move on to touch him somewhere else. My knees ache from the press of the floor, our limbs knocking together. The burning need helps us more than the messy saliva, but we get there, our swollen lips pressing together, and he's never felt this close before. He gasps, his eyes rolling to the back of his head when I'm buried in him all the way.

"God, I missed you," he mumbles, more to himself than me, but the difference is that this time I believe him.

Next chapter


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 4: Mercy**

"Would you put some clothes on?"

"Why?" I counter, heading to the fridge. "Does my birthday suit offend you?"

Keltie quirks an eyebrow, her lips twitching up into a smile. "It doesn't offend me, I'm just saying that being naked in the kitchen is a bit unorthodox."

"Fuck your system," I deadpan with a pointed finger, and she laughs, one arm wrapped around her raised knee. She keeps eating her brunch, which is just some cereal and milk, so food-wise it's not brunch, but time-wise it is. I open my fridge to find some post-shower food, and I take in the shrivelled red pepper, seven beer cans, three wine bottles, the champagne bottle, the half-finished vodka, and you'd think that with Keltie living here there'd be, I don't know, non-liquid food in the fridge.

"That's not breakfast," Keltie tells me when I take a beer.

"Oh, I know. It's alcohol."

She looks disapproving when I wink at her, but she laughs like I knew she would. "You're ridiculous these days."

It's a pretty good day to be ridiculous, all things considered. I'm crossing the living room when she calls after me to put some boxers on, for god's sake, and I oblige a bit grudgingly. Living with her is alright apart from her objecting to my nudity. I mean, we're both damn busy: I'm going around town to have a final drink with everyone before the band retreats from New York, and she's got four shows and six practice sessions every week. When she comes home exhausted, I'm just heading out to start my night. I still get to see her a hell of a lot more, and sometimes I stay at home and we talk about our favourite authors until four a.m. as she bakes muffins and I watch her baking muffins, then stick my finger into the dough, smoke cigarettes, tell her tour stories and drink wine.

And this is what it'd be like if we lived together.

I'm paying obscene amounts to get Keltie's apartment fixed in record time. This won't last long, our symbiosis. She said something about it being a good test for us. For the future. She probably means marriage, but I ignored her meaningful eyes and focused my energies on changing the subject.

The phone starts ringing in the living room, and I rush out with a dress shirt hanging on me, calling out, "I've got it!" when I hear the chair move in the kitchen. I make sure Keltie hasn't come out as I pick up the phone with a, "Hello?"

"Ryan, it's Jon."

Oh. Well, that makes life easier.

I put the phone between my shoulder and ear and start buttoning my shirt. "Hey, man, what's up?"

Jon starts asking about Bismarck again and what he should pack and what shouldn't he pack and if I want the twelve-string he's got since I prefer it to mine. He sounds stressed and confused, and soon says, "You wanna meet up for lunch? We could settle these things while we eat."

"Oh, uh." I turn my back towards the kitchen and look out the living room window instead. "I'm having lunch with Keltie today. Sorry. But we'll reschedule, right? I'll call you." I try to get my cuffs buttoned as I listen to him mumbling an unenthusiastic okay.

"Who's that?" Keltie asks from right behind me, and I start slightly as I swirl around and smile at her. I mouth 'Jon' as she grabs my wrists and attends to my cuffs for me.

"Okay, I'll see you later then," I say, putting the receiver down, now half-dressed with underwear and a shirt. Pretty good going. I brush my damp hair with both hands and say, "That was Jon. I'm meeting him for lunch."

Keltie frowns. "But it's my day off."

"I know, baby, I know. He's just freaking out about this Bismarck business." I walk to the bedroom to get the rest of my clothes on, and Keltie follows in her pyjama shorts and baggy t-shirt. She crosses her arms and gives me this look, and I put a tie on, trying to decipher the signals she's clearly trying to send. "What?" I ask.

She shifts in place restlessly. "We just never spend any time together."

"What are we doing right now?"

"Ryan. That's not what I mean." She sighs dramatically. "You're leaving town next week, and I thought with me staying with you, we'd hang out more. Go to dinner or to the movies or just go out, but we don't." Her cheeks redden slightly, and I guess what she's about to say a second before she says it. "We haven't had sex since –"

"Hey. These fingers." I show my right hand and point at the long digits with my left hand. She got off quickly – clearly had some tension she needed to get rid of. And that was last night. Okay, two nights ago. Maybe three. Still. "I'm just busy. That's all." I grab my pants and pull them on, sliding a belt through the loops, and she nods like I'm right, clearly I'm right. It's not like I suddenly don't find her attractive. I just wear myself out fucking someone else. She doesn't know that, though, and she's beginning to wonder. I really need to fuck her before I leave for Bismarck. Maybe I could get Vicky to remind me.

"I'm gonna be late," I tell her, grab my suit jacket and peck her cheek. She's got the tired and sad look of a war widow. "I'll try to make it quick, alright?"

"Okay," she says, smiling at me with warm eyes.

I have every intention to take my time.

He's already standing in the corner of 7th Avenue and West 23rd Street, smoking a cigarette and looking at the traffic lights that hang over the street in their yellow boxes. He's wearing a leather jacket that I've seen Shane wear sometimes. It looks amazing on Brendon. He doesn't see me on the other side of the street as he seems focused on smoking, like he's taking pleasure in every delicious drag, every swirl of smoke. I'm in no hurry so I remain next to the New Yorkers who are waiting for the lights to change, and I watch him and his black bell jeans and the red, woollen scarf that I've seen so often and the way his hair is sticking out a bit on the left side and the way his lush lips attach themselves to the cigarette.

The lights change, the cars slow down. He looks around. He looks across. I use one finger to beckon him over. Here, boy. Right here.

He smiles to himself and joins the flow of people crossing 23rd Street, and I meet him by the blue post box on my side.

"You're late," he tells me.

"I'm right on time," I argue and nod down the street. He falls into step with me, casting a suspicious look my way. I grin. "Don't you trust me?"

"Never," he says, and I laugh. "So where are we going?"

"Not far at all," I say, the building already right ahead of us, the sign sticking out of the building, the letters vertical. I come to a stop under it, and he looks around, still clearly clueless. "We're here," I say and nod at the red-bricked building.

He leans backwards as he looks up to examine the facade. "Wait. You brought me to a hotel?" he asks disbelievingly. "The Chelsea Hotel? When you said you wanted to show me something, I was expecting more than your dick."

"You're a dick," I argue and lead the way inside to the spacious reception. His steps are hesitant, but he follows, drawing in on himself like he wants to hide.

They greet me at the reception with "Good afternoon, Mr. Ross," and I nod back. They don't take a second look at Brendon, and Brendon follows me aimlessly, looking around at the huge paintings on the yellow walls. We wait for the elevator to come down, and I need to remind myself that there's nothing suspicious about this. If there's something I've come to realise over the past few years, it's that people can't take one look at you and know your preferences.

Okay, taking that back. With some people you can. Take that William Beckett for instance. I could sense it off him long before I knew it for a fact.

But the rest of us who aren't as obvious as William can remain in the dark. I've fucked men I never would have guessed were gay. They didn't look it or act like it or talk like it. There are no universal signs, and while Brendon can definitely act gay if he wants to, he seems to have grown past the era of wearing too short t-shirts and cocking his hips and showing off his incredible body. Now he just looks like a fucking handsome man. Nothing indicates that he's gay, so the two of us now stepping into the elevator together isn't suspicious to the outsiders. We could be friends or business partners or bandmates or cousins or brothers or pretty much anything in this world. It's not suspicious if we don't act like it is.

"Are we meeting someone?" he asks, looking above the elevator door where the floor numbers are lighting up as we get to each one.

"No," I say dismissively, and eventually the doors open to the seventh floor. "Come on." I nudge him with my elbow gently, now going through my pockets. The corridor floor is covered by a burgundy carpet, and our footsteps are barely audible as we approach the right door. I get out the bulky key ring that has the number engraved on it. "Honey," I say, unlocking the door, "we're home." I give the door a push.

Brendon looks beyond suspicious, but he steps into the living room, anyway. I like the suite almost more than my own apartment: everything is soft somehow, the wooden floor covered in red-shaded rugs, the big armchairs and couch looking inviting around the simple glass coffee table, the fireplace setting the mood despite the fact that it's been closed up, and above the mantel is a large, gold-framed mirror. It's trying to copy a French mansion we've never seen and never will with a handful of New York in the more modern designs. We've got a nice view, the yellow curtains framing the windows that show the tops of shorter buildings, and behind them more buildings, New York reaching out to all directions from where we are. Brendon stands in the middle of it all, turning to me with questioning eyes as I close the door, but not before I slip the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the other side.

"What is this place?"

"One of their suites," I tell him, walking to the bedroom door and pushing it open so that he can see the second room. The king-sized bed takes up most of the space that's decorated in reds, and a single stemmed rose lies on the pillows. I didn't leave it there, didn't ask for one to be put there, but it's a nice add-on, I think. They like having me here. Of course they do – one more musician to add to their long list.

"Okay, so you got us... a suite for the afternoon." He nods slowly like he can deal with that, still looking around the living room awkwardly.

"I got it for us indefinitely." I find what I'm looking for in my breast pocket and throw him the key. He catches it. "That's the second key. For you. We can come and go as we please."

His eyes are fixed on me. "What do you mean indefinitely?"

I smirk. "You wanted to keep fucking on floors, did you?" I unbutton my jacket and throw it on one of the armchairs. "You want a drink?" I ask as I go to the drinking cabinet. I pour us glasses of Scotch without waiting for an answer.

"Ryan. You –" He seems to be struggling to find the words, but then he just laughs. "My god. I can't believe you." He doesn't sound mad. Of course he isn't, now that we've got it figured out. Now that we're finally in tune with what's happening between us. I didn't tell Gabe about any of it, of course not, but maybe he sensed something as he started babbling on about first fights as milestones in relationships, although I still don't understand how that relates to anything.

The Chelsea Hotel is a good place for us. Firstly, with all the famous people they've had living here, the staff has learned to be discrete. And I'm not stupid either: officially the room – our room – is occupied and paid for by my blind company, Flagstaff Industries. Vicky's lawyers set the company up, and it's Flagstaff that owns my SoHo apartment, the cabin in Bismarck, eliminating my names from all the legal paperwork. That way fans can't track me down. Of course the staff at the hotel knows I'm here, but my name isn't on anything. And this room is ours for as long as we want it.

I hand him his drink, and he takes it to his lips. "You hungry?" I ask, nodding towards the phone on the side table. "Room service. You want pizza or strawberries or... I don't know, whipped cream..."

"Whipped cream, huh?" he asks with a knowing smirk, and I match his sly grin. An excited buzz has settled in my guts, and it's to do with this place. The suite is practically half of an apartment or a house: a bathroom, a living room and a bedroom. And it's ours.

Brendon throws his jacket on top of mine and goes over to sit down by the armchair by the window, looking out as he takes a sip of his drink. It's like he's feeling out the room. He slowly undoes the scarf around his neck, and I sit by the couch opposite the fireplace and watch him. Sirens sound from the world that somehow feels incredibly distant. His fingers curl around the glass, the golden liquid tilting towards him when he takes a sip. He looks at peace with the world, a small disbelieving smile on his lips. You don't get views like this in Brooklyn. I have never seen where he lives, but it's nothing like this, and we both know it.

"You don't have to do this," he then says and looks back at me. "It's a waste of money."

"I've got money to waste, and we've got nowhere else to go. Besides, you fucking love that view."

He laughs and smiles wide like he's been caught, but he looks like he belongs in this room and the world of champagne breakfasts, and if I can give him that, then I will. I gladly will.

He gets up reluctantly, like he's afraid the view will vanish if he doesn't keep an eye on it. "You don't have to spoil me." He sits on his knees on the couch next to me, staring at me. I cup the side of his face, my thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He doesn't realise how insignificant the room is when compared to what I'll get in return.

"I'm not trying to. I'm just... being practical. Now, if you want to get into spoiling, then I've also got your birthday present ready."

"No. No, I don't want anything," he instantly says. I open my mouth, but he takes my hand from his cheek, presses a kiss to my knuckles and says, "Thank you. But no."

"You don't even know what it is!"

"And I'd rather not," he says. "Besides, my birthday's a month away, and I'm gonna be _old_, and I don't want to think about it."

"You're not gonna be old," I object, but he makes a sad face like he is. "You're gonna be twenty-six."

He grimaces. "You had to say it, didn't you? God. I mean, right now I'm bang on in the middle of my twenties. In a month's time, I'm leaning closer to thirty. And then I'll be _more_ than a quarter of a century old, and then I'm gonna have this big crisis, like what am I going to do with my life? What is it all for? What does it mean? Will I ever accomplish anything?" His voice has turned into a melodramatic boom, and I put my glass down on the coffee table.

"Well, about that..." I start as he moves to sit on the couch properly, leaning into it and exaggerating a life-crisis sigh.

"At least Shane will always be older than me," he then says like it's slightly comforting him in his anguish.

I quirk an eyebrow. "How old is he?"

"Thirty-two. Will be thirty-three in December."

"Bullshit." He doesn't look thirty-two. That _is_ old, never mind that I'll be twenty-seven this year. I'm seven months older than Brendon, not seven _years_. And Keltie, well, she's only a few years older than me, but I feel the difference with her. She's at that age where she wants to marry me. She wants me to consider us living together. She wants children. I can barely keep myself alive, let alone a helpless baby. But say two years, that's over seven hundred days of more life. Seven years, that's... Well, whatever the exact number may be, but that's two thousand days, well over. Shane has seen over two thousand more days than Brendon has, and that has got to put them in different places. If Keltie wants to settle down, so does Shane. Shane probably had it in mind when he met Brendon, thought 'Here he is. The guy I'll grow old with'. Keltie probably had the exact same thought about me.

And that's why Brendon and I are hiding in a room in the Chelsea Hotel. Because we're not like them, we're not... their kind. When I first met Brendon, I just wondered if he could lift a fucking amp and get his job done, hoping I'd make it through the day without a mental breakdown.

"What did you think of me when you first met me?" I now ask, not sure if I want to know the truth.

"_Well_," he says, finishing his Scotch. I lean into the couch with him. "I thought you were a conceited yet self-deprecating asshole, who also had really pretty eyes." He now turns to look at me, like he wants to see the eyes that he's talking about. "I thought you... didn't appreciate what you had. I thought you were disillusioned by your fame. I thought you had these amazing lips and I liked your smile, and I thought that no, Brendon, you cannot go around liking this man's smile, and _then_ I just – Sometimes. Sometimes when you looked at me, it was like you saw everything." His voice fades out, and he smiles a little. "Yeah. Just like the way you're looking at me now."

He's not right. I can't see it all, but I'd want to. I'd really want to.

"And what do you think of me now?" My voice is quiet.

"Well, now..." He swallows hard. The atmosphere's turned serious in a way it never is with us. He leans in slightly. "Now I think you're a disillusioned rock star, who's conceited and self-deprecating, and also an amazing lay."

"Fuck off," I bite and shove him half-heartedly, and he laughs, and it's like the sound fills the room, making it ours. "I don't think I want to give you your birthday present anymore."

"Good. I don't want it."

"It was an _amazing_ present..."

"Sure it was."

"The best present I've ever given anyone."

"I can only imagine," he muses, and since he's not about to crack, I do.

"Time." He looks confused, and I sit up properly. "I would've given you time. Two or three days. Studio time, I mean. I talked to Bob, and he could stick around for it, and you and Ian could go to the studio while we're in Bismarck and do that demo you wanted to do. In a proper studio."

"With Bob Johnston producing?" he laughs incredulously, but I only nod. Brendon's met Bob, so why's that a surprise? "Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Simon & Garfunkel and who knows who else Bob Johnston? Working on my _demo_? In a brand new studio?"

"Told you it would've been good," I say nonchalantly as the light in his eyes sparks up, his pupils widening as he pales. He's proud and stubborn, I know that, and he turned down my offer to call a few friends, get him some free studio time somewhere. I just have to make him an offer he can't refuse. He's not stupid. _No one_ is that proud. "But I know, I know." I sigh dramatically. "You're not accepting my gift."

"No, I –"

"Say no more! Really! I know I stepped out of line and –"

"Ryan!"

" – you're a lone wolf, roaming the wilderness of this world alone, not accepting help from me or your primeval boyfriend, and I should know that by now and –"

He cuts me off with starving kisses, our lips bruising together as his hands rest on the sides of my neck, holding me in place. "I'll take it," he says. "Fuck, I'll take it, you stupid –"

Stupid what, I never find out, but he starts laughing against my lips, swearing heavily in disbelief.

And he sounds happy.

Vicky knows. I know that she knows and she probably knows that I know that she knows, but she probably doesn't fully know what she knows.

Our relationship comes down to Vicky not asking awkward questions but still making sure that I don't get in trouble. If I want something done, she makes sure that it happens, and she's taken Keltie's apartment's renovation to heart, making sure the contractors do a good job with half the time it'd normally take. She's organised the Bismarck trip, booked the flights, rented cars, and she looks anguished over the thought of losing touch with me for a few weeks, like she thinks I'll disappear during that time. It's not completely irrational for her to fear so.

But because she's perfect at what she does, she immediately makes the call when I tell her that Brendon Urie is to have control of the studio to do as he pleases in my absence. Bob's already agreed to it, but I want to keep it quiet. If the guys hear about it, if Shane hears about it, there will be questions. Why am I helping out a guy that, as far as they know, is a random acquaintance?

It's what Vicky is thinking right now as we're in her office. She's hired a second in command person to deal with The Whiskeys on the side, and she's got a personal assistant and a secretary and a few other people, and it's a company in its own right, and I walk in and get the doors opened for me, and then I'm opposite Vicky, who now knows. She always wanted to know.

"I saw Brendon play at an open mic night," I explain. "He's talented. I want to see what happens."

"I'm sure he's a creative individual," she says agreeingly, but that's not what she's really saying. She's saying, 'What aren't you telling me?' She's saying, 'Don't tell me it's what I think it is.' Pete didn't care back in the day. He didn't care who I fucked as long as I was going on stage every night. Vicky isn't like that. She wants what she thinks is best for me. "You've been spending time with Brendon, then?" she says, a neutral approach if there ever was one.

I look to her door to make sure it's closed, and then I shift in my chair uncomfortably. "I'd prefer it if you just did as I asked."

"I will. Of course I will. It's just – studio time is expensive. He could even fit thirty studio hours into three days, and I just. I just want to make sure that... you don't feel pressured into..." She's trying to find the words, and I don't understand where she's going with this. "I mean that... um..." She looks perplexed.

I burst out laughing. "You think I'm being blackmailed?"

"I didn't say that! I'm just – just thinking. Because remember how back in... December. There was this artwork you wanted me to pick up from Shane's exhibition." She's tapping a pencil against a notepad, her shoulders tense. "I had it picked up and brought here. You're not one to buy paintings or anything of the sort, so I took a look at it, I admit that. I was curious. I almost forgot about the whole thing, but then a few weeks ago Shane came to the studio with his crew. And then the boy from the picture was there. Brendon. So if there is some... some incriminating evidence that's lying about, or..."

"Vicky. I adore you. You know that I do, so I mean no disrespect when I say that you've lost it." I lean back in my chair, pressing my fingertips together in my lap. "I have been spending time with him, you're right. And I want to keep spending time with him."

She hangs her head slightly, her lips a thin line. "You know we need to talk about this."

She's my manager. I know we need to talk about it. Be it Brendon or my bisexuality or whatever she now sees as a threat. Nothing's changed over the past few years: any sexual deviation from my part will damage my career. Sure, some artists flaunt it. A few years back it was fashionable, even, because saying you fucked both sexes was a statement against the old ways and old ideals and old people. You fucked as a form of protest. Well, that age has passed. You're no longer a rebel, you're just a fag. And some musicians didn't mind connecting their sexuality to their music because their music _was_ a form of sexual expression. They showed it on stage and in the lyrics and on the LP covers, sex, sex, sex, with anyone, any hole, because they were new and outrageous and breaking rules. They wanted to make parents cry. I could no longer do this, but not just because that era has passed. I couldn't do it because my music isn't sexual. It's not about me panting into the microphone about the filthy things I want to do. The Followers wasn't about that, and my new music isn't about that. Being honest about my sexuality wouldn't boost my sales. No, it'd make sure no one bought my records again because who wants to know what serious message about life some cocksucker has? That's why I keep it private. That's why it has to remain a secret. But if I were smart, it'd be more private than it is. I'm telling my manager to give my lover special treatment. I'm pushing boundaries. It makes Vicky nervous.

"Isn't he dating Shane?" she then asks, voice uncertain like she's not entirely sure what's going on there.

"Yes, Vicky. Brendon is dating Shane."

She pales further but just nods. "Alright then." Another second, and she laughs. "God, it all makes sense now." She buries her face in her hands, the laughter muffled, and brown hair falls in front of her face like a silky curtain. "Fuck, Ryan, you could warn a girl." Her voice actually wavers on the last syllable. "We need to talk about this. We need to have a meeting and _talk_ about this, and –"

"Hey," I stop her. "You're freaking out." She nods excessively like she knows, and it's like she's taking this personal for some reason.

"Who knows?"

"No one." She stares me down, and I clear my throat. "Well, Gabe kind of knows."

"Fuck _me_."

"Look, Gabe might be unpredictable, but he's loyal, okay? Loyal to me. Don't worry about him."

"It's my job to worry. Christ," she sighs, looking torn. I have never seen her like this – she's always in complete control, even that time that Gabe smacked her ass and she swirled around and slapped Gabe so hard that Gabe almost fell down. But we're a team. Vicky likes talking about that, using all kinds of war and army metaphors of 'us' and 'them', and how we can do anything as long as we work together. And I need her on this. Because I could keep Brendon confined in this small nook of my life, but I want more than that. I want him on tour. I want him in my bed. I want him drinking Scotch in hotel room armchairs, admiring the city skyline, and at some point it will take more than booking a room at the Chelsea Hotel to get that done. And that's why I need Vicky. That's why I'm including her.

My secrets need more room.

"Okay. So you and Brendon, and – and Gabe knows. Knew before I did," she adds bitterly. "But I'm okay with this. Just great..." She appears to have calmed down, and she pushes her hair back. She worries on her bottom lip and won't quite look me in the eye. "But I need to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest."

"Go on."

"Is it... a fleeting thing? Or is this a long-term thing?"

I think of Keltie and her hints of us moving in together, and I think of Brendon and Shane's anniversary, and then I think of him and me, and we never talk about the future, and we never talk about the past, and we fight like cats and dogs for no apparent reason, and he drives me insane, and he tells me I'm impossible, and we lie and we cheat and we fuck and we laugh.

I think of our hotel room, and how him being there for two hours made it feel more like home than any place I've ever been.

"It's a long-term thing," I tell Vicky.

"And we can trust him?"

"All the way."

"Well, then. Okay." She takes in a calming breath and opens her calendar. "Okay," she repeats. She scribbles something down. "Brendon will get the studio. We'll make sure to keep it under the radar, but I'll make sure he gets complimentary snacks and all of it. I'll take care of it, Ryan."

I stand up and take her hand. "Thank you," I say before leaning down and chivalrously kissing the back of her hand. She laughs and pulls her hand back. Her eyes sparkle, but she still looks like I've turned her world upside down. "Did we have any more business to cover?" I ask, and she shakes her head. "Well, in that case I'll be off. I need to pack for Bismarck."

"I'll come pick you up in the limo to take you to the airport."

"I'll be ready."

"No, you won't."

I glare at her. "I'll try, Mom."

"Thank you, son," she smiles, and I flip her off, making her grin. I decide to send her some flowers once I get home. She needs to know that I appreciate her, and I also need to emotionally blackmail her onto our side. We can't make an enemy out of her.

I'm at the door when she says, "Oh! There was one thing."

"Yeah?"

She studies her notes and then looks up. She points a finger at me. "Remember to have sex with your girlfriend."

"Oh, yeah! Thanks."

"Just doing my job," she says, even if her smile is slightly broken. "And you know this conversation isn't over."

I know that. I know.

The sheets persistently cling onto my slickened skin, but we slowly push them out of the way. My mouth feels worn out and sore, but I can't stop kissing him. All that exists right now is this hotel, this room, this bed. His imminent duties for the promotion company don't exist, and my trip to half across the country tomorrow morning doesn't exist. We ignore the hot death on our heels, but we don't forget it either.

"That was amazing," he groans again. My hands are in his damp hair, and I taste the sweat that has pooled on his upper lip. He's right. That _was_ amazing. That just might have been the best we've ever had. I should go away more often if it equals sex marathons like this, but mostly I think Bismarck was a stupid idea. I can't say that to anyone anymore, not when I was the one who pushed it, but I wasn't in a good place when I made the decision. My fingers slide on his smooth, warm skin, and I have no idea how I'll be able to stand not being with him. I can't bring myself to say it. I'll be damned if I say it.

We're still coming down, but we're not rolling over for forty winks. Instead we're tangling together further, making out like teenagers, every touch electric. His mouth slides over mine, wet and hot, and he breathes out, "Want you."

Still. Even now.

"Fuck," I breathe out because it's so much, and it's not enough.

He doesn't know that Vicky knows, and I have no plans to tell him. He'd start worrying about it when I've got it all under control now. All under control except this – us on our sides, our hands slowly exploring. We keep tracing each other's features like we're not quite convinced it's real. His mouth moves to my neck where he bites down, and I let my head roll back, eyelids slipping shut. Our hips grind together, and all I know is his skin, his skin, his skin... Every time he speaks, every time he comes into the room, my eyes trace the way he moves. He's got me right where he wants me, but I hope he hasn't figured that out yet. His hand presses against my chest, his fingers digging in, and his teeth sink into my neck.

"Bren, I've still got a date tonight," I say half-coherently, knowing that Keltie will notice a huge bruise on my neck if he leaves one there. That's why I always fuck her in the dark these days, in the dark and under the covers. Not out in the open like this, like our bed's a stage for the hotel bedroom to see.

"I know, I know," he says, breathing hard as he licks over where he just bit me. He sounds mournful, but mostly his voice is overtaken by lust. It sends shivers all over my body. His mouth moves to my collarbone, and I let myself fall into it, to the way he's trying to devour me. His hand slips down my side, shamelessly moving to my ass where he cups me, pulling me closer. Our cocks brush together, and we're not hard but we're not soft either. It feels good, being this close. "I had this dream about you," he says, his mouth now over my ear. He sucks on my earlobe, and I can't think through the haze of him and his touch. "A vivid dream. Woke up so hard."

I picture him waking up, hot and bothered, cock throbbing, my name on his lips. I tilt my head to find his lips. "What'd we do?" I ask, moving to lie on my back. He moves with me, his chest pressed to mine, our hips still moving for friction. The kisses are fiery and shameless. A veil of pleasure drapes over us, painting the world in blood red, though really that's just the bedroom curtains and the sheets, and I should know that but somehow I don't. My hand moves on his slick back, my nails dragging his skin. I feel each vertebrae moving, and I get even more lost in his touch.

"Fuck, you were," he says, both hands in my hair. Whatever it was, it's got him wild.

"Yeah?"

"You were on your back like this, and I was in you." His hand slips between my legs. I freeze. My guts tighten, and my throat seems to close off. "You felt so good..." His voice is husky, and his erection presses against my thigh. I feel hot all over. I've thought about it. It has crossed my mind, but we're not going there again. He lifts his head, staring down at me with blown pupils. I don't know what he sees in my eyes, but he's quick to smile soothingly. "It was just a dream. I'm not saying that –"

"I know," I say, our lips meeting again. His finger moves up my perineum, not going further although it felt like he was going to, but now his finger moves over my balls and away from their brief exploration.

"I could ride you," he says. "We could... Although it'd be- God, you know it'd be so hot if you let me."

Something echoes in my head, a nearly identical memory. Him doing this exact same thing, coming on strong when he knows I'm vulnerable. The memories are all blurred. I remember his lips on the nape of my neck. Not being able to see him, but feeling him in me, feeling full. I remember the pain, the pleasure, and the way he kept pushing into me. It was impossible to catch my breath as my body trembled. I was so fucking sore afterwards. Had to walk down the street, knowing, feeling that I had gotten fucked. That I had let someone do that to me. Whenever I've allowed the memory to cross my mind, I've been on my own, close to orgasm, my thoughts jumbled and my cock in fist, and then when I was coming down, I told myself that that's _not_ what I had been thinking about.

Pretending was a lot easier when he wasn't lying naked on top of me, his weight pinning me down. It's not something I should want. It's not something I should let him do to me again.

My lips brush against his Adam's apple, tasting the skin. I focus on not shaking. "Okay." Okay. Okay? God, I'm digging my own grave, but we can be quick about it, and I can forget afterwards, only remember it when I jerk off, need new memories of him inside me, fresher ones –

"Fuck," he groans, the single word coming deep from his chest, masculine and hot. He kisses me passionately, controlling the kiss like he's got it from here. He doesn't even double check or clarify that we're talking about the same thing. He just moves to lie between my legs that part to accommodate him.

"Missed doing this," he says, and my stomach churns. The sex itself from that night is a blur, but I remember the aftermath, cleaning myself off, standing in the shower with his come rolling down the backs of my thighs, just standing there, my back against the tiles because my legs were so weak, feeling like he'd marked me. The way he cut in a lot deeper than I had given him permission to, and then it all went wrong, all of it, and I never saw him again until I did. And now he wants back in. He doesn't know what he's asking.

He moves downwards, wet kisses on my chest. He traces my nipples with his tongue, waiting for them to erect, and then sucking on them when they do. I've never really considered them to be an erogenous zone, but they are. They are when he puts his mind to it. His hands have taken a firm hold of my waist, commanding, and I lie still and try to breathe. My skin feels sensitive wherever he touches it, and his lips leave a trail of tingling sensations that make my cock hard like we haven't fucked in weeks.

"You should hurry up before I change my mind," I rasp, licking my lips.

He stops and looks up at me, his eyes dark. "Did I say that you could speak?"

There's a moment, a lull, almost, when the nerves and the horror and the want – the deep, liquid want – all meet, and his words hit home in a way they haven't, in a way they wouldn't otherwise, and a chill runs up my spine. "No."

"No. Exactly."

He doesn't make me apologise. He has mercy.

His fingers seem to shake, but he takes a firmer hold, but this is getting to him too, it must be. He just hides it well.

He resumes his journey down, his mouth moving over my ribs to my stomach, teeth scraping the skin. I feel him smile there – wicked, cruel, accomplished – while my heart races and blood pounds in my ears, and every cell of my body is tuned differently now, hyper-sensitive. His tongue twirls in my belly button, causing me to gasp, and when his sinful mouth reaches my hipbones, he says, "God, you're so skinny." The bones are jutting out, I know that, and it must turn him on if the attention he gives my hipbones is anything to go by.

He places a wet kiss to the head of my cock without warning, tongue swirling as he holds the base, and I muffle a groan as I jerk violently. He pulls back, and a strand of saliva stretches between his lower lip and my cock, or maybe it's pre-come, I can't be sure, but he groans, leans back in and laps at my slit. I bite on my tongue – god, fuck, god, it's good – but he told me not to speak.

Before it can develop into a proper blowjob, his mouth runs down my length, his tongue licking over my balls as he pushes my legs apart. A small protest erupts in my brain, a sharp _no, don't_, but his hands are firm, fingers pressing into the soft skin of my inner thighs, and I want to open up to him. Let him do as he pleases.

"Okay. Okay, Christ," I mumble quietly, trying to calm down. I place one hand over my eyes like then I don't have to see or know, and the beige ceiling disappears from view. I bite on my lower lip until it hurts. And his mouth, his stupid fucking mouth, is there, kissing just below my balls where the skin is so sensitive, like he knows exactly what to do. How to drive me insane. He pushes my legs up, bending them over my stomach, and I let him.

Gabe's words echo in my head – bet Brendon can be a good boy. Yeah, he can. He loves just that, but it's clear that once in a long while he wants to swap places. What Gabe didn't know and what I'd never own up to is me being able to get off on Brendon deciding to be a bad boy instead.

His hands take firm holds of my ass cheeks, and he spreads them apart. It's the most exposing thing I've ever felt in my life. His hot breath washes over the skin, and then his mouth makes contact. I jerk and hiss and fight back a slutty moan. His tongue slowly moves over my hole in broad licks, and he groans. His fingers press hard into my flesh. This isn't new. This I've made some guys do for me – I've braced myself against walls, jerking off, letting them eat me out, but no fingers, just their tongue, I made that damn clear, my body thrumming with a talented mouth on me, calling them the most derogative terms to make sure that they knew something was wrong with them, not me, not even if I was the one making them do it. That was that. This is this, and this is different, because he's not some anonymous guy, and he's going to do a lot more to me than this, and he knows I want it. Lust is pooling in my guts, my cock throbbing.

He pulls back for air, the puffs hitting the wet skin and making my back arch, my spine curving on its own accord.

"Someone's enjoying themselves," he notes, a smug tone to his words, and my face feels hot. I do enjoy this. I do, I do, so what?

So nothing, it seems, as he moves to bite down on my cheek, like he wants to leave a mark on my ass instead of my neck. Knowing him, he probably does. He sucks in skin, and that's gonna leave a mark, that's going to be a reminder, and his thumb presses against my hole and rubs in the saliva that he left there. My muscles contract, but he keeps rubbing gently, not trying to force anything. I relax into it, waves of heat running over me when he touches me there.

He pulls back and blows air on the piece of skin he just attacked, and it feels sore but he licks over it soothingly, travelling back to take over teasing my entrance instead. His lips rub against me, and he's kissing me there, slow and deliberate and full of want. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, tight, tight, and it makes it even easier to concentrate on his mouth on me, makes the sounds I'm making louder to my own ears: the gasps, the hushed moans, the erratic breathing. And he hears all of it.

"God, you're so hot like this," he says, and I let out the dirtiest moan when he kisses my hole. Then his tongue stiffens, and he pushes into me.

"Bren, you fucking cunt," I hiss involuntarily, biting my hand and making sure to keep my eyes closed. My other hand is in my hair, pulling on my hair painfully. My body reacts to the intrusion, muscles contracting, my stomach feeling wet where the head of my cock rests, and it's good, it feels so fucking _good_. His fingers dig into my cheeks, a clear 'be quiet' as he keeps going, but I can't keep quiet, my hand falling from my mouth, and I can't stop moaning and gasping as he begins fucking me with his tongue. He eats me out with perfect precision, and I can't stay in control of myself. It's hard to keep a grip on reality, and the ceiling, fuck, the ceiling is beige and the curtains are red, and my body doesn't even feel like my body because I'm not familiar with this, I'm not used to this, and it's wrecking me.

He pulls back momentarily, long enough for me to miss his mouth, but then it's back. His tongue is back with a finger that he's pushed into me, and my muscles grip on the single digit. It feels like penetration, proper penetration, and something about it feels so overwhelmingly satisfying that I'm ashamed of the pleasured groan I let out. Fingering myself is never the same, never as good, and it's not something I have ever done frequently, not enough to get used to the sensation. He's sliding the finger in and out, and I tell myself to relax.

"That's right, just let go," he says. "That's a good boy..."

My cock gets even harder, like getting compliments means that much, like his words turn me on. But god, it feels good, too good, and I'm on my best behaviour for him to get more. My armour's in the corner, my back's arched in surrender, and he knows it.

He's soon got two fingers in me. The stretch burns, but then he crooks his fingers just right, and my mouth goes slack, and fuck, fuck, _shit_. "Oh god," I breathe helplessly, panting, trying to get oxygen in, but the air feels fiery and smells musky, and he licks around his fingers. The pleasure all comes from where he has breached me, making me unable to think. He keeps his fingers fucking me until I'm used to it, almost trembling as his fingers repeatedly press against my prostate.

Then his fingers have gone, and my muscles squeeze around nothing. I feel open and desperate, barely registering him pulling my legs apart. When I take in our surroundings, the room is draped in a red glow. He's sitting on his knees, and my feet have settled on the bed. He's not looking at me because he's pulling at the sheets, and he's flushed, his chest, his neck, and his lips look swollen and red, and his erection is curved upwards. God, I've made him so hard. He pushes hair from his forehead when he grabs the lube from somewhere in the sheets, and he pours the remains of the tube onto his palm. Then he looks at me. _Then_ he stares me down. His eyes move from my face down to my chest and stomach, and I know what he sees: my flushed cock, my balls, and then my hole that he's stretched, wet with his spit, just waiting, and my heart beats so fast that it's like it wants to break away from my chest. What am I doing, what the hell am I –

"You look good," he says quietly. I close my eyes, not wanting to know. "You really do."

I nod quickly, not wanting him to look at me for too long, for him to memorise me like this. His lube-wet fingers push back into me, then, and I groan and spread my legs further to get more because god, that's so good. I'm lost. I'm so lost. His free hand takes a hold of the base of my cock, and he takes me into his mouth. I groan and take a hold of his hair because it helps, and all I can focus on is where his mouth is, where his fingers are, the way my body is tensing up from the pleasure of it. Sweat rolls down my neck, and there are hinges that hold a person together, holding me together, that are becoming unhinged. He's finger-fucking me and blowing me, and he's got me right where he wants me. He groans, taking more of my cock into his mouth, loving it.

"You're gonna make me come," I inform him helplessly, because every time his fingers push into me, a surge of pleasure flashes throughout my body and then flies back to the pit of my stomach. It's good, I don't want it to stop, but he won't want me to come yet, I know that much. I try to focus on it. Try to. "Brendon." He told me not to speak. My hips are moving slightly, trying to get more of his fingers, trying to get more of his mouth. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I breathe out, the pleasure overpowering me and winning the battle. "Bren, I'm gonna fucking come," I groan, body trembling, and my head keeps pushing against the pillow under my head, messing up my hair, making me look like a fucking whore by the time we're done.

My muscles tighten around his fingers, and I'm right on the edge, and guttural groans rattle my chest as my eyes slip shut, and fuck, his fingers are in me, thick and long, pushing against my insides, his tongue is dragging along my shaft, and –

He pulls back just as I'm about to lose it, his fingers slipping out. "Fuck," I hiss, biting on my lower lip. My cheeks feel wet. My body jerks, overwhelmed and overworked.

"Hey," he says, voice rough, and it's his raspy blowjob voice that I recognise by now. A warm hand presses against my stomach, slowly moving in circles, and I try to breathe, so on edge that I feel like I'm about to break. "It's okay," he says, his fingers now dancing over my ribs. I try to respond or nod or something, but I only lick my lips, the bottom one swollen from me biting on it.

He doesn't waste time in moving over me, our cocks making contact as he settles between my legs. His mouth travels from my shoulder to my neck, angry bites, and his hands find mine, our fingers lacing together as he moves my arms over my head. He kisses me – I don't kiss him, no, I'm just taking whatever he decides to give, feeling too far gone to try and fight him, although a part of me is telling me to do just that. Fight him, fight him, but I did and it got me nowhere, nowhere except in this bed with him. He pins me down, using his weight as leverage, and my stomach gets smeared further when drops of pre-come land on it, our cocks pressed between our bodies. His tongue pushes in to meet mine, his head tilting for the perfect angle, and he's taking his time kissing me. I don't even realise he's positioning us, shifting his hips, until his cock slides between my legs where I'm open and ready, and he's got me yearning for it.

"Stay," he orders. His hands slide back down my arms. "Stay."

I feel dizzy. I nod. I'll stay. I'll keep still.

He reaches down between our bodies, taking his cock in his hand, and he kisses my chin. A drop of sweat rolls down to the tip of his nose, dropping onto me. I swear my heart is beating irregularly, a manic race and then just skipping four beats, and it's all him everywhere. He presses the tip of his cock against my hole, and the only reason that I know I can take him is because I've done it before. It doesn't seem to help me much because the head of his cock feels huge rubbing over me, spreading his pre-come, and my fingers find the barred headboard, taking firm holds of the bars, my body tense in anticipation. I spread my legs further.

He lifts my hips, and I let him because this is what he reduces me to. He groans at the further contact, and it sounds so dirty, and the swollen head of his cock is pressing against me. He pushes forward. My body resists, but he keeps the pressure constant until my muscles give way. I feel the exact moment my body opens up for him, and once he's got the head of his cock in me, it's easy. For him. He slides in deep, forcing me open.

Okay. Okay, not a good idea. No, this definitely wasn't your golden moment, Ross, you stupid fucking cockslut.

He leans back over me, groaning, and I focus on not whimpering or hissing because he's bigger than I remembered – suppressed memories – and he's pushing me open, so fucking deep in me, making me feel so full, and I'm not used to this, being taken like this, letting anyone –

"Jesus," he groans, "you'd think no one's fucked you since."

My head rolls to the side, and I bite on my arm, anything to gag myself. You'd think that, yeah. You'd certainly think that.

Pain trickles up my spine from between my legs, a stinging throb, and the second wave is darker, another kind of throb – so full, so open, and with no escape, none whatsoever.

He kisses me hard, like no one's kissed me before, messy and heated, and his hips draw back. I feel every single inch of his cock in me, retreating before pushing back in, forcing me open again. And that. _That_ feels so –

"Fuck, fuck, god, Jesus," I swear against his lips, and he says, "Yeah," voice overtaken by sex. Beneath the discomfort is a liquid sensation that is radiating through me. I hold onto the headboard like I'm hanging on for dear life, and fuck, fuck, fuck, this shouldn't feel like this. I'm not tensing up or shutting down. I'm relaxing into it, because I know I'll get more if I do, and I want more. I want to see what happens next.

His hands slide up my arms again, grabbing onto the flesh halfway. He keeps me pinned down as his hips start a slow rhythm. He breaks the kiss, supporting himself above me, his eyes wild and dark. My legs are spread wide, and he's snugly between them, and I can't get away from this, can't push him away when he's this close, and I can only let him in.

"Ryan," he manages, face flashing with pleasure. "Oh god, you feel so good right now."

So does he.

It's a sweaty, dirty affair, rippled with ecstasy when the pain subsides, and then all that's left is the pleasure of him fucking me. The hotel bed is a nice bed, meant for things far more graceful than this, something other than him on me, pinning me down, in me, but it's better than last time, which is worrying in itself because I liked it far more than I ever should have. He grips my shoulder with one hand, the other on my hip, and his breaths wash over my lips as he fucks me, the kissing sporadic and muddled because we can't focus on it.

"Come on," he says. "Move with me." His voice drops an octave, his mouth travelling to my ear. He thrusts in brutally deep, and I grip the headboard, willing myself not to groan. "Show me you want it," he whispers, but I can't, don't want to, because if I move too, it'll feel too good and then he'll know. I can barely handle letting him fuck me, let alone – "_Ryan_." It's a command. Fuck him, _fuck_ him.

I feel the drag of his cock in me as he slides out, and when he pushes back in, I buck up my hips, meeting him halfway. We both stop and gasp, and greed suddenly bubbles in me as I let myself groan fully into the thick air of the room. His breathing hitched in a way it hasn't before, and I want to please him, want to trace the source of pleasure.

"We're good," he breathes shallowly, picking up the rhythm again, and I'm not sure if he's referring to our recovery from the sudden blinding pleasure or to the way in which our bodies work together, but it doesn't matter. I move one leg to hook over his waist, and he gets closer, pushes in deeper, and I thrust back against him, my upper body kept still as my arms ache, fingers firmly holding the bars, but I move my hips to get as much of him in me as I can.

It doesn't give me any of the control. He's fucking me, determining the depth and speed, and I take it all, start asking for more, hoping he'll oblige, and the thrusts are harder now, his cock pushing against my prostate and overwhelming me with pleasure.

"When you go," he says, and I nod, yeah, god, anything – faster, even faster now, oh god – "When you go, Ryan," he says, and it sounds like he's trying to make a point. He breaks off into a moan, swearing, and this is driving him insane too. "Just don't forget," he says, and his lips find mine, and I nod, breaking the rule and letting a hand come down to take a hold of the back of his head, deepening the kiss. "Promise," he gasps.

"I promise, fuck, I –" He puts more force into his thrusts, like he has barely even started and now has renewed vigour. My eyelids slip shut, his lips brushing mine. I try to hold on, pulling him closer. "Fuck me," I whisper, my neck and face feeling hot as the words leave my lips. "Brendon, please don't stop, don't –"

"Hand," he says, and yeah, of course. When I've obeyed and my hand is back above my head, he says, "You don't even know what you're doing to me, fucking _hell_."

My senses feel heightened, and my skin is radiating heat – the sex, the rational part that's humiliated, the irrational, winning part that doesn't care – and that's when I realise that he'll make me come. He will fuck my ass until I come from it, and at least the last time that didn't happen, at least then it wasn't his dick in me that got me off, but this time it will be, and I know it now. My body is getting more and more wired, like a clock being winded too tight, and as my muscles clench around him, I feel him even better, every single inch.

His hand moves from my hip to my cock, his long fingers wrapping around it firmly, and I choke on my breath. I wish he wouldn't do this, wouldn't push me this far, wouldn't make me. We're both covered in sheens of sweat, but my stomach feels wetter from where I've been leaking onto myself. Now his strokes are helped by the pre-come, and his fist loosens whenever he gets to the base, his grip tightening on the upstroke, like he's trying to milk it out of me. It's working, too, and I groan, "Harder, god, go harder –" and he does, fucking me deep and hard and jerking me off. I cling onto the bars, my back arching, and he muffles my moans with his mouth, like he's in such control, like he's not falling to pieces, like it's that easy for him.

He knows exactly when I'm about to tip over the edge because he breaks the hungry kisses and pulls back, pupils wide, eyes dark and taking me in, and I object to that, don't want him to watch me as he makes me come, but I'm too far gone to do anything about it. He's watching me, gripping my shoulder, fucking me, fucking me, his thumb brushing the head of my cock, and our eyes meet.

It all slips from view when I climax, and my muscles clench around his cock, and it makes me come harder. My hips jerk, I'm loud, loud enough to echo to the next room, nonsense, nonsense, every muscle, every cell, white flashes of pleasure, and then he groans, bites down on the sensitive spot below my left ear and spills inside me. I feel him, all of him, feel so wanted when he fills me up with his come. I knew it was just a facade, that he had no control either.

His lips find mine, our tongues meeting. Our hips still move, he's riding it out, still stroking my cock, and the come cools down on my stomach. He lets out guttural groans, all pleasure from his orgasm, a hint of awe in it. I come to a stop before he does, too spent and too sensitive to move. His thrusts are slow, slower, and then he stops moving.

My fingers are stiff when they loosen their hold of the headboard. I break the kiss, keep my eyes closed, try to catch my breath. Oh god. Oh fucking god.

His nose slides across my cheek. "So that was kind of amazing too."

I lick my lips and try to put words together to compile sentences that I could then say in a coherent fashion. He's kissing my jaw line, his hands sliding up my arms to my wrists where his thumbs press into the pulse points. He's cut right through again, deeper than before. "Fuck you," I say with as much bite as I can muster.

He laughs, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck. The time we're about to spend apart will get deep into my bones.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 5: No Beginnings**

The branches of the pine trees are drooping down with a heavy coat of snow, and it reminds me of the early sixties when I'd stand on this porch as an entirely different person. I was only a child, my nose cold, watching the snowfall. It was so different from Las Vegas where it never snowed, where there were no pine trees, and the one good thing that my old man ever managed to do for me was to bring me up here every winter. It taught me one thing at the age of six: there was a world outside Vegas.

I have nothing in common with that little boy anymore, nothing but some scrapes of a shared past. Then the music happened, and LA happened, and the band happened, and the drugs and the booze and the women and the paralysing realisation that it couldn't last forever and that it just might kill me before the inevitable end, and every day it became more crystallised that I didn't want what I had gained. I think I'm on the right path now. I think I might be.

The two cars we rented stand outside the cabin, both covered in the snow that fell earlier. Our steps have trampled the snow and made paths here and there, and everyone else is asleep, but I can't. I keep smoking, wrapped up in Gabe's jacket, watching the way the trees sway in the mild, midnight breeze. It's not that cold, fifteen degrees, maybe. The air's got enough bite to feel on my skin, but I'm not giving up yet.

I keep humming a song in my head, a song that didn't exist when we got here a bit over a week ago. It's now my favourite song, and I like humming it, like going to my notebook and changing the lyrics here and there. We've got it on tape now, another one ticked off, but I'll keep working on the lyrics until last minute.

The music isn't turning me into an insomniac. We've scrapped some of the songs and brought some other ones back to life. And they sound like they should, so they're not keeping me awake. Jon said that we've been here for ten days. I don't see time as days, but simply as time: an endless string of hours, no beginnings, no ends. It's a blur of writing music and drinking with the guys and getting the firewood done, and I haven't been counting. Counting is remembering, and I don't need to be reminded. I feel his absence, anyway.

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. They never mentioned that absence makes you feel like you're walking around dismembered.

"For a Vegas kid, I'm impressed by how you handle the cold," Jon's voice comes, and I look over my shoulder to see the cabin door open. A light is on in the kitchen, casting shadows on the porch. That's one of the biggest changes from my childhood: electricity. It's like a different cabin altogether. In my memories, it was damp and cold and smelled of dead animals. Now the large pantry is a guest room, the fireplace in the lounge is actually working, and the two bedrooms in the back have new, wider beds, and none of the floorboards are loose. It's all new and pleasant, and the guys don't seem to realise that it was never pleasant before.

"I've got surprises up my sleeves," I say, watching Jon wrap his jacket around himself tighter.

"You alright?" he asks me, and I nod. I'm alright. More now than ever. I get out my cigarette pack, but he rejects it with his palm faced my way. "Shouldn't," he says, and I shrug and put it back in my jean pocket. Our breaths rise into the air and my fingers feel stiff, but nothing can shift the tranquillity of our surroundings right now.

"You okay?" I now ask in return, because Jon did go to bed. He's sharing with Gabe and complained on our second morning here that Gabe always ends up draping all over him. Patrick kept laughing while I just wondered if Gabe seriously was trying to hit on Jon. Jon seemed annoyed enough without even knowing Gabe has a habit of sleeping with men. Patrick's in the pantry, or the converted guest room, I suppose, with its narrow single bed, and I've got my old man's room. You'd think that lying there would evoke bad spirits, his spirit, a ghost clinging onto me, but it hasn't been like that at all. Nothing happens. I look at the corners, waiting for something to step out of the shadows, but nothing ever does.

It's like it's really over now. The past has really died.

Jon sighs slightly. "Gabe's snoring."

I laugh and suck on my cigarette. "Yeah, he tends to do that." Jon quirks an eyebrow at me, and I say, "You think we've never passed out on each other?"

"Point taken." He still looks uneasy, like he has been discovering his losses while I've been discovering my gains.

"I know what's up," I tell him.

"I know, I know," he says quickly, the words rushed. He grimaces slightly. "It's hard to explain, man. I've spent a decade with Cassie, and I know you and – and Gabe think it's dull, makes me dull, or –"

"Jon, man, we've never –"

"– but she's my soulmate. You know? And I miss her. We don't even have a telephone here, have to drive down to town to call her. I love hanging out with you guys, but I'm not in love with you, am I?" he asks, laughing a tad miserably. "You spend that much time with someone, it's hard to function without them."

"You should marry her, then."

"Oh, I plan to. Trust me, I will." He sounds so certain that I smile despite myself, and he glares at me, but he's not really mad. "Sounds naïve to you, but that's because you're a cynic, Ryan Ross."

"I'm mortally wounded by such accusations."

"Like anything could ever get to you," he says and rubs his nose that's reddening in the cold.

"Something just might one day," I say, the cigarette finishing, and I flick it over the railing to the snow. I stuff my hands into the jacket pockets as I blow out the last of the smoke. It's thicker than our breaths, than the carbon dioxide we emit around us.

I only half-lied to Jon. I would have lied fully had he let me finish the sentence. Gabe's often said that Jon's done for, tamed and so on and so forth, but if Jon's too monogamous, Gabe's promiscuity certainly compensates. Gabe gets along well with Cassie because Gabe gets along with everyone, and Gabe doesn't mean to be cruel when he talks about Jon's ball and chain. He likes Cassie. Cassie still doesn't like me, but I hardly ever see her so it's not an issue. Stealing Jon away up to the cabin probably isn't making me any shinier in her eyes either. I'm sure I've said some nasty things about their relationship too, in a drunken or drugged up haze, or even when sober, just to make a point of me not having to leave band practice because my girlfriend's best friend's brother's cat needs feeding or some other chore that only comes about in a well-established relationship. But we don't think Jon is dull because of it. We don't think he's less than what he is. Hell, it makes him who he is, and the last time I checked, Gabe and I both loved the man.

We're just assholes, Gabe and I.

"So what's up with you?" he asks, and when I give him a 'what do you mean' eyebrow lift, he says, "You know. _You_." I remain as confused as before. "You've been acting weird all week. Or, well. You've been acting weird all year come to think of it, but even more so lately. I can't decide if it's good or bad."

"The world's pretty black and white to you, huh?" I ask just to change the subject. He's not stupid. He knows I'm changing the subject.

"I'll figure it out eventually," he says, but I know that he won't. I'm not about to tell him, and he could never put the puzzle pieces together himself. He shivers slightly. "How long do you think we'll still be here?"

"Two weeks, maybe. The music is..."

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck. The music's really coming together, huh?" he asks, eyes shining and a proud smile emerging on his lips. He still trusts me, even if he knows there's a lot I'm not including him in. He's included in the music, and that's the most important part of our friendship. And I'm not sure if it's the stress-free environment or the painkillers I take four times a day behind the guys' backs, but my arm has no longer been acting out either. "It makes all the bad stuff worth it," Jon says. "I don't mean to sound like I'm pining away here, but man, going to bed and having Gabe molesting me in my sleep? Makes me miss Cassie in ways I didn't know I could miss her. But the music makes it all worthwhile. We keep writing songs like these, I'll happily stay until the end of the century."

"We won't need that much time. Two weeks."

"Maybe longer if we don't get anything done over the next few days," he says. We had a band meeting earlier, and we agreed to take it easy for a while, provide enough material for the documentary, sure, but also take it easy, kick back, drink too much and go to bed when the sun rises. "Shane's coming in the morning then, yeah? Did Patrick say he'd pick them up?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think he did," I say, nodding excessively, the butterflies now there, and Jon probably thinks that I don't understand and can't relate, but he has no idea.

"Far out," he smiles. "Well, don't stay out here for too long or you'll freeze to death."

"I'll make sure I won't." I push my hands deeper into the pockets, giving Jon a goodnight nod as he heads back inside. My fingers touch something papery in the left pocket, and I pull it out as Jon closes the door quietly. It's a Polaroid picture, a thin square thing in Gabe's pocket. It's been taken in the studio control room, half of Bob's face in it, Jon with his back turned, but they're not the point, the focus or the meaning. It's a picture of Vicky and me. Gabe did say that he approved of that leather skirt, and Vicky told him to back off, and there was nothing unusual in any of it. As for me, it was a day like any other. Gabe took the picture at some point without any of us realising. Vicky's laughing in the shot, and I'm grinning at her.

I don't know if Vicky's the point or if I'm the point. Either way, I get the uncomfortable feeling of knowing too much, and I quickly put the Polaroid back into Gabe's pocket.

If Gabe and I are assholes about Jon's relationship, it's just because we're jealous.

The table in the kitchen is the same. The wonky, crude letters are the same, made by a knife and an eight-year-old's determination and boredom: G.R.R. III. Dad gave me a beating when he saw what I had done to the table. I deserved it, to be fair. I place the plate over the letters carefully, the piece of toast nothing to cheer about, but I'm more focused on the voices outside: laughter, car doors, steps on the porch.

I don't know why I'm nervous or buzzing like this, why I've been nervous all damn morning, my pulse picking up steadily. Now I hide in the kitchen and wait. The door opens in the lounge. Footsteps. Banging to get the snow off. Gabe's explanatory voice of "this is the lounge, sorry about the mess", but of course it's a mess with all of our music gear stuffed into a single room, and a familiar, "Oh wow, it's so cosy," and how nice that Shane approves, and I strain my hearing, frozen to my seat in the kitchen, and Patrick asks if he can take one of the bags, and Jon says that he'll go get the suitcase from the car, and the commotion keeps going, their voices and footsteps and the showing to their rooms, and then it quiets down again, their voices muffled as a bedroom door closes, and they're all convened there now, and –

"I like your place."

I look up, and he's in the doorway, smiling. He's unbuttoned his coat, but he's wearing red mittens I've never seen before, and they look slightly ridiculous on him if it weren't for how they look perfect. His smile reaches his sparkling eyes, and I read the unspoken message, a simple 'Hey'.

I lean back in my chair, a rush of blood in my ears. Ten days, Jon said. I didn't count because you can't count infinity.

"Hey," I whisper. And it all locks into place.

"So it's done?" I ask, and he nods. We're at the start of the hallway that leads from the lounge to the bedrooms, and he's leaning against the wall while I mimic him, our socked toes almost touching. "How'd it go?"

"It was – God, it was _incredible_," he says, clearly wanting to gush about it but not being able to. The others are spread out in the living room, Shane taking out his equipment and explaining how it works to an intrigued Gabe as Jon and Patrick laugh over the beers they're having. "And Bob was so helpful, the man was amazing, and it turned out so good, I can't tell you. And Bob said he liked it. He honestly said it was really good," he beams, but I'm not at all surprised. I knew it'd be amazing. Everything he does just about is. "I brought you a copy."

"Oh yeah?"

"You deserve to be among the first ones to hear it," he says, and we can't seem to take our eyes off each other. My hands are stuffed into my pockets because when they weren't, they kept trying to reach out on their own accord, grab his hand, pull him over, kiss him on the lips, entwine myself around him, not caring that everyone's here. "When Ian saw the studio, he just about died."

"What'd you tell him?"

He shrugs. "Something about winning it in a card game against you. To be fair, I don't think he cared much for the how, he was just excited to –"

"What you two talking about?" Patrick asks, and Brendon looks over his shoulder into the lounge as I see the guys all looking our way now. I don't know how obvious it is, the body language, how subtle, because Brendon's got his hips cocked in this certain way that I know is an invitation, and I know I can't take my eyes off of him.

"Hunting," I reply, and Jon looks slightly sceptical.

"Now this," Gabe says, drawing the attention back to himself. He's pointing at a button on the video camera he's got on his lap. "What does this one do?"

Shane and the others focus on the technology once more. Gabe's the best accomplice I've ever had.

"So where's this demo?" I ask quietly, and Brendon nods towards the bedrooms. "Lead the way."

He takes one look at my band and his boyfriend and then heads down the hall to Jon and Gabe's room, where their bags are for now. They're only staying for four days. It was Patrick's idea, actually. When the music started flowing, he just said that it felt like the kind of thing that should be on the documentary, and Gabe called Vicky the next time we went to town, Shane plus one because we have no room. I don't know if Brendon volunteered or if Shane chose him for selfish reasons, but it hardly matters because Brendon is now here. The sleeping arrangements are still obscure, but Shane brought sleeping bags so the lounge will probably be left to Shane. And, well, Brendon, though I want him in my bed. Maybe if I told Shane that, look, man to man here, I want to borrow your boyfriend for the night. Don't make a big deal out of it, Valdes – you don't own him. No one does, but we're having fun trying, aren't we?

Brendon opens up a battered suitcase on Gabe and Jon's bed – clothes and some books – and then he finds a tape somewhere between rolled up sock pairs. I close the door behind us as he turns back around.

"Here," he says, exhaling heavily, and he looks nervous and excited as he passes the tape to me. "It's, um, it's just the four songs that we did, and they're not final versions or anything, but it's something, right? At least it's something, and –"

I kiss him, my hand taking a fistful of his shirt. Been wanting to kiss him since he arrived, since I left New York. He sighs against my lips, his arms wrapping around my neck. The tape presses into the small of his back as I place a hand there, keeping him close. "I'm sure the songs are unbelievably good," I say, our noses brushing together, and I could count the lashes that are dark against his cheeks, could count the shades of brown in his eyes, my lips barely touching his. "You have any idea how much I missed you?" I ask, and he laughs like he's embarrassed.

"How much?" he asks, and I kiss him again, now with more force, putting everything into it. I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer until we're pressed together, and he feels amazing in my arms, and Jon's words echo in my head, and that's it, that's what this is.

Voices right outside the door tear us apart, and a second later the door opens. I'm still wiping my mouth as Jon says, "You guys want beers or..." His voice fades away, and his brows knit together. "You alright?"

"Yeah," I say while Brendon nods, "Yeah, definitely. Just fine."

"Right. Okay. Um, so the beers?"

Brendon looks at me, eyebrows raised to his hairline. "Beers. Yeah, that'd be great."

"Wouldn't say no," I concur, and as Brendon follows Jon back to the lounge, I quickly go drop off the tape in my room, where I put it on the nightstand, placing my notebook on top. Never to be lost or misplaced.

The guys make an extensive shopping list now that there are two more mouths to feed and since we're out of food again. Brendon sits on the same couch as Shane, but they don't touch, and Gabe asks if anyone else wants chicken except for him. Brendon looks tense now, thanks to Jon's sudden invasion, no doubt, but Jon is just helping Gabe with the list, saying that he's definitely going because he wants to call Cassie, and Shane's volunteered to drive because he's the only one who hasn't had anything to drink today.

"Ryan, are you coming?" Shane asks me, and I lean my shoulder against the fireplace mantle, slowly sipping my beer. I look out of the window where it's still light, but in a few hours the sun will set. I shake my head slowly.

"I was thinking I'd stay behind too," Brendon says. "I'm exhausted from the flight, and –"

"Yeah, of course," Shane cuts him off, tone laced in worry. Shane's placed a hand on Brendon's knee, squeezing it affectionately.

"Guess the three of us will hold up the fort then," Patrick says, and my eyes focus on my drummer, who has glasses low on his nose and is wearing an ugly sweater with a moose on the front, which is perfect for our location but looks like it was made by his blind grandmother. Patrick smiles at me, not that awed smile anymore because it's worn off. It's the smile of a good friend, but right now Patrick really needs to be able to read the 'no' that should be visible on my face.

"Patrick, don't tell me you're abandoning me," Gabe says miserably. "You know that Shane and Jon are going to talk about politics the entire drive, and I'll _die_ of boredom. Patrick, cariño, amor, amor de mi vida..."

Patrick laughs, abashed, and shakes his head. "I really don't –"

"You should go," I say. That's all I say. Patrick looks at me like he's suddenly reminded of who he's dealing with, and his cheeks flush slightly. "Keep Gabrielito there some company."

"Thank you! Glad someone's on my side," Gabe says firmly.

"Sure. Okay. I'll go," Patrick mumbles.

Brendon's quick to disappear, saying that he's taking a shower and then a nap, and the guys pull on boots and wrap themselves in their thick jackets, checking five times that someone's got the list and that acceptably obscene amounts of alcohol and cigarettes have been written down. Shane goes to start up the car, and I stand in the open doorway, wrapping my arms around myself as the cold hits me. Patrick is behind the car, signalling Shane where and how to reverse. It's started snowing heavily, and the sky is giving us all it's got, like it knows that it won't get another chance for such a display until next winter.

Gabe stands next to me, zipping up his jacket. "I'll try not to hurry back," he says, keeping his eyes on the car that's now turning the right way round. He's not looking at me, but he looks like he wants some acknowledgement.

"Thanks."

"Eh," he shrugs. "What wouldn't I do for my brothers, right?"

Brothers. I don't know if he believes that or if he's trying to throw me off the scent. I wouldn't want to know the truth in any case.

He gets out a cigarette pack, winks at me, and descends the porch steps. I turn back to the lounge, and Jon's standing by one of the couches, kicking back into motion when our eyes meet. "I'll see you later, then," he says, Patrick calling for him to hurry up.

"Yeah, man." He squeezes past me, and I say, "Remember the vodka."

I stay in the doorway until the four of them have crammed into the car and the backlights have vanished down the narrow and windy road towards the main road. It's already getting darker, and the wind is picking up, and I close the door before the entire cabin feels like Antarctica.

And then they're gone at last, and we're alone.

It's quiet. It's absolutely quiet. No music, no Gabe, no sirens. My steps sound loud in my ears as I cross the room, and as I approach the back of the cabin, I hear running water. I see it in my mind's eye already: transparent drops rolling past his shoulders, down his back, his chest.

I stop outside the bathroom door. It doesn't have a lock, it never did. I undress myself. That's how he should always be approached because that's what will always happen in the end: he'll strip you bare.

The bathroom is steamy, and the shower curtain shows a blurry silhouette of him standing in the tub, and my heart feels heavy, beating dark in my chest. I close the door quietly, breathing in the steam as I walk over. I draw the curtain aside. He doesn't flinch or startle. He's facing me, and lather has caught at his left ear and he doesn't seem to be aware of it. His lips turn upwards into a smile, and the want and the urgency, they've never felt as burning, and still I have all the time in the world.

"C'mere," he says. I step in, and my hand slides across his stomach.

"I do get to worry," he argues, snuggled beneath a dozen blankets "It's a fucking _storm_ out there."

"Precisely," I say from my couch. "Would they start driving back in weather like this? No. They really wouldn't." Which is why it's ridiculous we're on different couches. Even with all of Gabe's diversions, they should have been back at least two hours ago. It's dark outside, and the wind is rattling the windows while the fireplace keeps flickering and radiating warmth into the room. "They're not coming back tonight."

"But what if a tree fell on the car or something?" he asks, forehead wrinkled in worry.

I brought the radio through from the kitchen, and Howlin' Wolf is playing _Smokestack Lightning_, and he's howling his blues, alright, downright howling, "Oh tell me, baby, where did ya stay last night?" We're waiting for the local news, but I already know what happened: they drove into town, and then the blizzard started. They decided to try and wait it out, but it only got worse, and the inn's right in the centre, and it certainly isn't full this time of year, and that's where they are. They'll drive back up tomorrow morning. We've got all night, him and I, but he's perched on the couch, telling me to stay on the other one just in case they come back because we wouldn't hear them coming what with the wind being so loud.

The seven o'clock news start, the transmission rattling and crackling, but the male voice is comprehensible enough. When he says, "Highway 83 is closed off north of Wilton due to heavy snowfall that has stopped all traffic –" I say, "See? I told you so."

He breathes out slowly, relaxing. "Well, as long as they're alright and not stranded out there."

"They're fine," I say for the hundredth time just as the newscaster says that the road should be reopened by noon tomorrow. "Now can I sit on the same couch as you?"

"No. You have cold fingers."

"Do not," I argue, pressing the pads of my fingers into my palms, trying to get the blood circulating a bit better. "We've got a cabin in the woods, a roaring fire, and not a single soul miles around. This could be a damn romantic evening if you just let me sit over there."

He laughs. "We don't _do_ romantic, Ryan."

I don't see why not.

His worry seems to subside, however, now that he knows there is a good reason for the guys not having returned. I pick up our former conversation, his demo tape still in the recorder. I listened to it five times in a row while he sat on the couch, trying to hide behind the blankets, his cheeks tinged red. "You've got an incredible voice," I say. He looks pleased but also like my words are too good to be true. "I haven't heard anyone ever sing like that. It's something new. Something groundbreaking. You're using your voice as its own instrument."

The music isn't anything I'd write. Jon once said that my music is "brooding", even when it's a full on rock explosion like it often was with The Followers. The dark aura has always been there in my work, and I know that. Brendon's music doesn't have that. His music is lighter, something you might hear on the radio, more commercial sounding. A pop rock feel to the songs. But then you listen to the lyrics and realise he's trying to say something. It's a blend of styles, and I remember what I told him and Ian on their mic night: it's got potential. It's got a fuck load of potential because it's good.

"I'm glad you like it," he says, smiling slightly as his eyes are fixed on the live flames. "That's pretty cool. You're talented, so. That's a good sign. That you like it."

"My opinion's worth shit. People just think I'm smart and knowledgeable because I'm famous."

"It still means something to me."

My chest expands for no obvious reason.

"I want more copies of your demo. I want to pass it onto people." I already said this too, halfway through the second song on our first listen. Sure, he could put tapes in envelopes and mail them to labels, have the tape piled up under dozens of other tapes to be listened to at some point. But he doesn't have to. He doesn't because he's got me, and I know people, and he deserves to skip the queues and the bureaucracy and the middlemen. I'm not saying I can get him signed. I'm saying that I know people who can, and that my word has weight in it.

"Ryan, I don't know if –"

"You want this. Don't you?"

"I wanted it when I was younger. Then I realised it was just a silly dream. We can't all be rock stars, can we? So I let it go. Focused on what my life really was. Then I toured with The Followers, and I... I found myself writing songs again. I'd seen that it could be done. The dream could be attained, but... maybe I'm just too old now." His tone is testing the waters, a bit embarrassed like people are sometimes when they're honest and say that, yes, really, they want to become astronauts or models. _Really._ Sometimes it takes as much balls to say what you want to do as to really go for it.

"You're twenty-five. There's still time to change the road you're on."

He grins, and his face turns mock serious. "And when I'm famous, I'm bu-uy-ing a stairway to heaven."

"Good plan. That's what you should do." He laughs, but I don't mean to distract him from the point or let him change the subject. "Look, all I can do is give the demo to a few guys, who might listen to it, might not, might pass it on, might not. What do you have to lose?"

He shrugs, looking small. "I don't know." It sounds like he wants to say 'a lot', but I can't imagine what that could be. Bartending at the club or doing his non-profit internship for the promotion company? I know he has had his heart set on making his own connections, making it without any help, but I'm only trying to speed up his inevitable discovery. The Followers had help, too – Joe slept with the daughter of a label's CEO, and she slipped our demo on top of the pile. No one in the business comes out clean, and me helping Brendon out if I can is pretty innocent compared to what some people have done.

"Okay. I guess," he sighs.

"Well, good. That's settled, then. Also, I have to say that I'm making my move now. Just warning you."

"What?"

"Gonna invade your couch and join you under those blankets. Then I'll fake a yawn and stretch to wrap my arm around you and then I'll try to get you to make out with me a little bit."

"Like we're googly-eyed teenagers, huh?"

"Pretty much, yeah," I say, and I love the way I can make him laugh, when he thinks I'm being a moron, and I swear I don't make such lame passes at others, but I know he'll laugh and that's why I do it.

These days, that's why I do everything I do.

The curtains are new, a pale yellow and too bright with the morning sun shining through them. The darkness has passed, the storm has subsided, the wind has settled down. It looks like the world has started new, and it's decided to be as beautiful as it can this time.

It's still too early for me to greet it, and I close my eyes. Brendon's back is pressed against my chest, and he's breathing evenly in his sleep. We're sharing a pillow, and my arm is resting under it while the other has curled around his chest. He's warm and soft and alive, like he is the centre of it all, that's what it feels like when I feel the thud of his heart against my fingertips. His arm rests over mine, and I've never felt as relaxed in my life. My nose brushes against his hair, and his hair smells like sex, and I don't really know how we managed that last night.

This is what it'd be like.

There'd be no one else in the cabin. Just the two of us. And, I don't know, maybe we just felt like some downtime, needed some privacy, some peace and quiet. Whatever the reason. And the world could wait with its recording schedules and tour plans and crazy fans and old enemies and new enemies and album release dates, because that would all slip from view. And we'd do nothing special. We'd make breakfast, we'd cut down firewood, we'd go for walks, we'd listen to the radio and sing along to forties blues songs, he'd play some guitar and I'd try and cook up something edible, and maybe we'd play chess or just talk, god, we'd just talk, and then we'd have a shower and I'd fuck him against the wall, and then later he'd laugh by the fire at something stupid I said, and we'd go to bed, wake up and repeat.

I kiss the nape of his neck with dry lips, as gently as I can. I don't want to wake him up. I want to let him sleep for as long as he wants to.

We've never done this before. We've slept in beds, taken post-coital naps, shared a bed through the night a few times, but I've never woken up to find him asleep in my arms, to find myself holding him as close to me as I can. To wake up to a feeling of unity, of being a part of something bigger, something I can't quite figure out but can still name.

I've never done this before in my life.

It's him. Yeah, that sounds about right. That sounds like something he'd manage to do.

He stirs, and I nuzzle the spot behind his ear that he loves getting kissed. He hums, sounding pleased, and he turns to lie on his back. He's got a lazy smile on his lips, his eyes half parted. He looks sleepy and has bed hair, and I study every detail as my hand moves to trace the features of his face, my fingertips moving on his cheek. His lips part, and he's about to say something, but I press my forefinger against his soft lips, silencing him. His eyes flutter open, revealing dark brown irises, and he looks at me questioningly.

I let my finger slide to his jaw, and my hand settles on the side of his neck. "I love you."

He exhales softly. Not like it's a surprise. And it all comes together, then, the past and the present and the future. Truthfully, I don't know much of anything. I'm all talk. I've seen this country and I've seen a few others, and I've seen a lot of people and I've heard a lot of things, but I didn't understand any of it. Didn't understand because I didn't understand myself, but now it's all falling into place.

His hand moves up to grab the back of my head, and the kiss is crushing like he doesn't want us to say words that are inadequate, anyway. I kiss him, feeling torn open, closer to him than I've ever felt to anyone, and that's where I want to keep him. At the core. I want him to know all the things no one has ever known. Want him to be the one. Want him.

The kiss deepens, but it's not rushed. We shift until I'm on top, and he tastes stale and he tastes perfect, and my heart feels heavy and my heart feels light, and the rest of me feels weak, weak at the sight of him, at the feel of him.

I breathe him in, all senses heightened. My hands slip through his soft hair. The energy spreading through me is new, almost nervous even as it is consuming. "Want to be inside you," I whisper, lips brushing his, and a delicious half-gasp escapes his lips.

I want to take my time, want to go slow and soft and look into his fucking eyes, all of it, because the universe rearranges itself for us. It does. He rearranges me.

His hands are running down my spine and back up, and the slow kiss contains more passion and more feeling than any heated, hard kiss I've shared with him, and what I feel for him is in every cell of me, bubbling over and consuming me from within.

"Please," he gasps in between a kiss, sounding overwhelmed. He wants it too. Needs it as much as I do.

He breaks the kiss, eyes suddenly wider, wider. His mouth hangs open, and he looks alarmed. "What?" I ask, but he hushes me, looking to the door, and then I hear it too. Banging. Shoes against the floor. Gabe's voice.

"Fuck," Brendon swears, but I don't _care_, but he does and by extension that means that I care too, and I roll off of him quickly and reluctantly. He's out of bed like he's been hit by lightning – smokestack lightning – wiping his mouth and flattening his hair and pulling on boxers that aren't even his. "How late is it?" he asks, looking out of the window where it's light, lighter, and we slept in, but we had the right to.

"Don't know. I'll keep them out there and you slip back to your room." I grab a pair of pants and pull them on with no underwear beneath. "Alright?"

"Okay. Alright."

Gabe's voice is calling out what sounds like 'Honey, we're home!'

"Don't you worry about anything," I tell him, sweeping him in for a kiss that takes him by surprise. I feel a fraction of the stress leaving him, and he appears more in control when we part. I will handle this. He never needs to worry about anything. "And by the way, you look dashing this morning," I add with a sly grin, and he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh as his eyes smile at me.

A cold chill hits me in the hallway, flying in from the open door and the men and grocery bags that have now come in.

"There he is," Gabe says, spotting me first, and I run my hands through my hair quickly as I get to the lounge.

"You guys got stuck in town?" I ask, and Patrick launches into a blow by blow account of their adventure, and Shane looks around so I say that Brendon's still sleeping in Jon and Gabe's room since, well, there was a vacant bed, and Shane seems content with that although he looks longing, too, like the unexpected departure from his boyfriend made his heart ache.

Unsure if Brendon is still in my room, waiting for the right moment to sneak across the hallway to the other room without being spotted, I show all the guys to the kitchen to put the food away. I try to smile, but there's a hard blade stuck into my guts, and somewhere deep within me an angry wave is saying 'I hate you for coming back so soon,' and 'I never wanted any of you to return, you should've just left us here by ourselves. We were good. We were perfect.'

We really were.

The guys empty the paper bags, and Jon heads back out but I block him quickly. "Not gonna help out?" I ask, and he frowns, his gaze dropping from my eyes to my bare upper half.

I hear doors open and close. Jon looks over my shoulder, probably having heard it too. "Just going to put my coat away," he says, slipping into the lounge where he throws his jacket on top of the couch that's still covered in the blankets that Brendon and I used last night. I look down the hallway, scratching my head, and Jon says, "You look..."

I focus on him. "Yeah?"

He seems to be in a loss of words. A door opens, and Brendon steps out of the second bedroom. I have no idea why he got dressed because he's now down to a pair of pyjama pants, and his hair is tousled, and he yawns and lifts a hand our way. "Mornin'." He points down the hallway. "Shower."

"We'll fix breakfast," I tell him, and he gives me a thumbs-up and he walks to the bathroom, like my existence is just a fleeting thought in the edges of his sleepy mind. He'll be hungry after the sex we had. We better fix up a decent damn breakfast. I watch him until he disappears into the bathroom, and unlike yesterday I can't go join him. It feels like a crime.

"Well," Jon says, attracting my attention again. He chuckles, now seemingly more relaxed. "We should start getting lunch ready."

"That late, huh?" I ask as I follow him to the kitchen.

"That late," he says, and Gabe sighs dramatically that I should put some clothes on, for god's sake, because my attempts at trying to seduce him are slowly but surely working, and I flip him off while Patrick says that's sick. Shane smiles crookedly, clearly feeling out of place, and when I become aware that there's at least one obvious bite mark on my lower stomach, I place my hand on it and finally go get dressed.

The alcohol has been flowing freely as we've settled in the lounge by the fire, and our voices get louder as our blood mixes with the vodka. I'm mostly quiet, just laughing at the stories the guys are telling, a stupid grin constantly stretched on my lips. Patrick's sharing my couch, Brendon's on the floor with a blanket beneath him, and the rest are on the second couch, empty beer bottles gathered at their feet.

I suck in the smoke from my cigarette, cheeks hollowing. Shane did some filming after lunch, and we played some new songs for him, and Brendon watched us playing, and I swear the music sounded a million times better than it ever has. But I haven't gotten the chance to be alone with him, and it's starting to get to me. When Shane interviewed Gabe, Jon asked me to figure out more songs with him, and after the recording, Brendon and Shane went on a _stroll_. Not a walk, but a _stroll_ – Shane's words, not mine – and the two of them vanished for an hour and twenty-three minutes like there is anything worth seeing out there.

They left hand in hand too, like they're so deep in rural areas that there's no fear of someone seeing them holding hands, and although Brendon smiled at me when they got back – _the_ smile – I can't shake off something disconcerting at the back of my brain.

Brendon laughs at something Jon says. I can't take my eyes off of him. My heart keeps beating heavy and hard, and it's not the alcohol because I'd need to drink for five more hours to get properly drunk. It's just the way my heart always is now. Brendon. He's it.

"That's the more sensible arrangement," Jon says, bringing the bottle to his lips, and I snap out of my thoughts and look over to the other couch.

"That really would be great," Shane says. "I get these backaches."

"What?" I ask, trying to follow the conversation.

"Sleeping arrangements," he informs me. "Bren and I will take over the second bedroom. Jon doesn't want to share with Gabe anymore."

"I didn't think it was _that_ bad," Gabe says, sounding insulted.

"I'd wake up to find you drooling on me," Jon says indignantly. "I'll be just fine sleeping here in one of the sleeping bags."

Gabe sighs dramatically. "Ryan, can I sleep with you instead?"

"No," I say, and he glares at me. Brendon's busy picking at the label of his beer, and something hard settles in my stomach. I want him to say no. I want him to say that he refuses to share a bed with Shane. They wouldn't... They wouldn't fuck, not here, surely not when they're surrounded by other people, and Brendon isn't quiet during sex, and the bed is squeaky, so no, they wouldn't or couldn't, but even then, that bed is not wide, and they're bound to end up pressed together. And maybe they do that in New York every night, anyway, but somehow this time it hits too close to home.

This is our house. We made it ours last night, and now he's going to someone else's bed instead, and am I the only one who thinks there's something inherently wrong in that picture?

"Well, if that's settled, I should go to bed," Shane says. "I need to be up early to set up the cameras."

"That sounds like a plan," I say. What I mean is _fuck off_. We'll stay up all night drinking, and I'll make sure Brendon doesn't go to bed until the sun is up and Shane's fiddling with his stupid cameras for a damn documentary I decided to do on a whim in order to get closer to Brendon. It worked. Worked like a charm. Why is Shane still here?

The others try to tell Shane to stay because they all like him, Patrick, Jon and Gabe. They all like the director, but Brendon doesn't say anything, I'm pleased to note. And with Shane gone, Patrick can move to the other couch, and Brendon can sit next to me.

Shane gets up, shaking his head. "Need to get some sleep, you guys. Especially before I get too drunk. Can't work with a hangover."

"Well, goodnight if you really insist on it," Patrick says mournfully. Shane, however, isn't leaving. Instead he's looking at Brendon.

"Bren? You coming?"

Brendon looks up from the beer bottle he has so intently been studying for a while now. I stare at him. Don't you dare.

But Shane says it so casually, like he just assumes they go to bed together, at the same time, because that's what they do, that's how they work. After a pause, Brendon says, "Yeah," getting up, smoothing down his shirt and not looking at me. He seems self-conscious, and I don't know if it's the fact of the gay couple going to bed at the same time in a house full of supposedly straight men, or if it's just me. Because he's not looking at me.

Brendon puts his bottle down on the mantle and flashes a quick goodbye smile. But he wouldn't actually go. Not in our house, not because he knows now, and he's mine now, I claimed him this morning, and he doesn't need Shane for anything anymore.

"Night, guys," he says, and his eyes land on me briefly. He looks... not sorry. Worried. Yeah. Like he's worried.

Shane leads the way out, and as they disappear, scorching disappointment pools in my stomach.

Oh.

Gabe's looking at me silently, Jon is doing the same, and Patrick's already moved on to talk about the new apartment he's moving into now that he's making decent money.

My eyes flicker to where Brendon disappeared from view. My insides feel rotten.

"How about we stick to the spirits?" I ask lifelessly, and seeing that the vodka bottle has been finished, I go to the kitchen where the whiskey is. A stupid thing. God, so – Never mind. Who cares? Never mind, it's nothing.

I lean against the counter and drink straight from the bottle. I hear a slight bang, and all my senses heighten momentarily. I don't hear it again. It wasn't the bed banging in the midst of sex because then I'd hear it again, or maybe they slowed down, or maybe it was just them getting into bed, and I try to breathe, try not to think about it. It's all I can think about.

Fuck it. This place. This cabin needs more than a fucking renovation to transform itself into something pleasant. Something that doesn't take stabs at me.

I take long sips of the bottle until finally my mind stops playing a reel of Shane doing filthy fucking things to Brendon, and Brendon loving it, head thrown back in pleasure. I know it's just my imagination. I know, I know, but their touches feel so real.

The guys laugh in the living room. I march back out, grab my coat and inform them that I'll be drinking in one of the cars.

The air doesn't feel as cold as it actually is because I've been drinking, but my breath fogs up the car windows quickly. I find a pair of fingerless gloves in my jacket pocket, which is pointless because my fingers remain as cold as they were before. Brendon doesn't like my cold fingers. I wonder what Shane's blood circulation is like.

I sit in the light yellow Mercedes, quietly singing, "Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?", trying to distract myself from the cabin and whatever is happening inside it. I don't know if it's been two minutes or twenty, when knuckles knock against the window on the passenger's side, and Jon is leaning down, peering through. He opens the door without an invitation, the car tilting as he sits down and settles in. "Hey."

I hum and let my fingers trace the wheel. It's a nice car. Vicky got us really nice cars. Jon talked about this one at length on the drive up, could hardly shut up about the purring sound as he pressed the accelerator.

"So you know how weird it is that you're sitting out here in the middle of the night, right? Because you being you, you might not know."

"Beats standing on the porch in the wind," I argue and offer him the bottle. He takes a long gulp, and silence lands on us. I don't feel much like talking, I just don't want to be in that house right now.

"I know why you're out here." He stares out, towards the smudged squares of light that are the cabin windows. "I'm trying really fucking hard to understand it. I mean, it is... it is Brendon, isn't it?" His voice has faded into a quiet and serious whisper.

I look at him in surprise. I thought he was going to say music or the meaning of life or death or anything other than the actual truth. My old band blew up on me when they found out, Spencer, my best fucking friend, was worried I wanted to fuck him too, my ex-girlfriend went into hysterics, Vicky nearly the same, Gabe just grinned but that's Gabe, and Jon is – Jon is such an average guy. He wants a wife and children, and he wants security and retirement plans, wants real American values and all of it, but he's not doing any of the things I've come to expect. He's just sitting there.

"Yeah, it is," I confirm, not at all sure how to handle this. "How long have you...?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe. A hunch? I don't know. Maybe even for a month on some subconscious level, but now the truth's just been staring me in the face. Need to own up to it, you know?" He takes another long sip, his breath rising into the air. It's pitch black outside, and I'm glad we can't quite see each other's faces. He sighs. "It puts me in an awkward position, man. Shane's become a good friend, and – Well, Brendon and I are cordial, I guess. I wish I didn't know."

"I didn't tell you."

"No, but if I figured it out, how long's it gonna take before someone else does too? And I mean – Cassie and Keltie are really good friends. If Cas finds out that I knew all this time –"

"Look. No one's finding anything out."

"Ryan." He lets out a short laugh. "It's written all over your face." He looks at me, and I duck my head, not wanting him to see whatever he sees. It's not that obvious. Can't be because if it were, we would've been found out already. Or maybe it's only now that it's starting to get to me, that it's finally leaking through the cracks. "Okay, so what's... what's going on with you two?"

A good question. A damn good question.

Gabe's asked about us, but he's nosy and jealous, and Vicky's asked about us, but she's nervous and jealous, but Jon... Jon sounds like he thinks I probably just want to talk about it. To someone. Anyone. Someone not me. I haven't wanted to share it with others, but Jon's a smart guy, and he understands these things – hell, he's got Cassie, doesn't he? – and I find myself leaning into my seat and letting it pour out.

"I don't know. I swear to god, I don't know. Sometimes, I think I know what's going on with him, but then I realise I have no idea what he's thinking. Don't know what he's feeling. And then I think I've got us figured out, that we're on some solid ground, but then it's all in my head or maybe it's not, but I haven't asked because we don't – We're two guys. We don't talk about our fucking relationship. Well, not honestly, anyway. God. I just don't know what's going on with us." I wonder if my rant makes any sense to Jon at all- I think of Brendon just getting up and going with Shane, and maybe he had no choice in that situation. Okay. But I just can't even begin to guess what he thought while he stood up and left. "I don't have Brendon fucking Urie figured out. No change there, I guess." My words practically drip of bitterness.

"So you guys... have done this before..?" he asks, now finally sounding confused by our relations. I give him a long, long look, and I can just see the flash of realisation on his face. "Oh. Okay." He sounds surprised.

Jon's band didn't stick around long enough to ever witness anything that went down with Brendon and me, but I did tell Jon to fuck off because of Brendon. Indirectly because of Brendon. Maybe directly, but I just didn't know that yet. And when Canadian History split up and Jon and I were reunited, we never talked of Brendon or the Jackie tour again. Let the past be gone, we decided, clicked our glasses together and decided to start writing music together. He didn't need much convincing. He had Ryan Ross on his doorstep. No, he needed very little convincing.

"Old habits die hard, right?" I ask quietly. They don't die at all. "When we met again... before Christmas. It was..." I don't even know how to finish the sentence I started. Magical. Legendary. Chemical. I had no choice.

"Who knows?" Jon asks. Too many people. Brendon would go ballistic if he knew because he's always so damn worried about someone finding out. But most of my band does now, and my manager too. That's three more people than should be allowed. "About your... preference, I mean," he then clarifies.

"The men I've fucked?"

I'm crude on purpose. 'Preference'. What a polite way to put it. He's not thrown off by it, though, not calling me a fag to my face like Joe or Brent or even Jac did. He doesn't even flinch. He just says, "I never would've guessed."

"Rewind five years, and me neither." Before Brendon. Before all of this. God, back then I was so damn sure of the things that were falling apart around me. "Look, you remember a few years back that anchorwoman who blew her brains out on TV?"

"Yeah, I remember reading about it."

"I saw it."

"Shit. You being serious?"

"Yeah. Even remember the exact day because it happened the morning after I... with Brendon. He was the first." Somehow the information feels too personal to share, but I press on because that wasn't my point. "And I – I don't know. For a few weeks, I thought it was a sign from God or Allah or Krishna, fucking Zeus. That it was bad, the root of evil. That that part of me was evil. Maybe it is, come to think of it." Brendon briefly crosses my mind. "But the thing is that it's my decision. And nothing out there can judge me, only I can. Some – some fucking depressed lunatic woman killing herself on air has got nothing to do with me. There is no predestination. There's just life. You can't rationalise chaos, Jon. You _can't_ make everyone happy, so you gotta choose. And I chose me."

"And how's that working out for you?"

I laugh, fully realising that I'm trying to get drunk in a rental car because Brendon has chosen to keep up appearances. "The results vary."

I suddenly remember a drunken memory, telling Jon that Brendon was a fag. A hotel corridor, maybe, and me talking bullshit as usual, and Jon just didn't seem at all affected that Brendon was gay. Now that he knows the truth about me, he remains as calm as he did then. Fuck. Maybe I've met the only guy in the country who thinks it's not his business who people sleep with.

"You should come back inside," he says eventually. "Don't want to look suspicious, right? And whatever you and Brendon... have. He looks at you differently. Than Shane, I mean."

"You think so?"

"I do," but I'm not sure if he's just saying it for my sake. "And he's going behind Shane's back to be with you, so we can all come to our own conclusions from that, right? So you can stop moping about it."

"Not moping," I object, and I recall him talking about Cassie, and yeah. It's like that. What I feel for Brendon. "You spend that much time with someone, it's hard to function without them," I reason, quoting him, and Jon chuckles. Brendon can't refuse to share a bed without all of it coming out, without causing a scene. That's all. Nothing more. "Thanks, Jon."

"You're welcome. But just... don't include me? I don't want to lie to people I care about."

Neither do I, but it's become second nature somehow. I barely even notice it anymore.

I promise to leave him out of it, anyway.

Still, when I finally go to bed hours later, alcohol pulsing in my stomach and the world bleary, lacking the clarity it had that morning, it occurs to me that it is different. It has changed.

I'm sick of sharing him.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 6: Baby, I Think I'll Refrain

The usually silent studio receptionist looks like a frightened hare as she approaches our bar table. We don't even notice her at first, me keeping my eye on the time, Patrick on the newspaper, and Jon on Patrick's face. "Mr. Ross, sir," she repeats, and it's only then that we notice her. "She said it was urgent," she explains and hands me a small note. It reads: 'So what are we doing tonight? – Keltie' "She's been calling all day."

"Okay," I say and put the note in my pocket. The girl keeps waiting, but I don't know for what. She clearly wants me to say something so that she can pass on a message. "I'll call her?" I offer, and she visibly relaxes.

"Okay. Thank you, Mr. Ross."

As she heads back out of the busy bar to get to the studio that's just a few blocks down, I silently add that I'll call Keltie when I get around to it. She's been breathing down my neck all week, asking what plans we've got and what are we doing when. I've been living in the studio ever since we got back from Bismarck, recording songs with the snap of my fingers. I haven't had much time for her, even less now that she's moved back to her newly renovated apartment. It's all shiny and brand new and it cost me a fortune, but she hasn't been informed of that. I hardly saw her when we were unofficially living together, but she kept the place tidy and she cooked and she was nice to cuddle to at night, and it's a shame that she's gone now because my bed is cold without anyone next to me. Now we could migrate back to my place, which is closer to his work and Brooklyn, but my apartment has never been home. My apartment is a handful of rooms. The hotel room is ours.

The band and I have finished fifteen songs, all in two weeks. It's like I've been possessed by a muse, it all pouring out, the band mesmerised by the way the music just suddenly comes together. The way it should have been in the first place. They're all so fucking excited now. Vicky's planning the big release, and the news of it is hitting the radios and the music magazines: he's coming back. They're holding their breaths.

Patrick is still reading the little clip in the arts section of The New York Times that's about the band. It doesn't even mention Patrick by name, but his eyes are still popping out in excitement. I know what it says: Ryan Ross, The Followers, the bus accident, been under the radar since, no new releases in three years, et cetera, et cetera. Long awaited return. A pioneer of music. Whoever wrote that clip clearly wants to fuck me.

"God, they're really selling it," Patrick says, now pushing the paper along the table back to Jon. "Oh god. Oh wow." He looks stressed.

"If no one likes it, it'll be my head they'll chop off. Not yours," I say kindly, and Patrick seems comforted by the knowledge.

"They'll like it," Jon says, now rereading the article, his eyes flying over the text. His mouth is twisting up at the corners. And of course they'll like it. That's not even an issue; it's just a matter of how much.

A chorus of whistles and a few 'Looking good, baby!'s attracts our attention, and the last chair gets pulled back. "Gentlemen," Vicky says and sits down. "What are we thinking of the article?" She gets her cigarette holder from her bag and quickly has a lit cigarette attached to it. She leans back in the chair and orders herself red wine.

"We're thinking it's good," Jon says, "but don't you think it's a bit dangerous to be promising release dates when we're not done yet?"

She waves her hand dismissively. "Early summer, it said. Now that could be June or July. Either way, keep your calendars free for June. I envisage a warm up tour." She sucks in cigarette smoke and blows it out, a perfect O rising into the air. "I'm going to get us on an airplane. Hit all the major cities: LA, Chicago, Toronto, Phoenix, Philly, San Fran, you say it, we'll hit it. The arenas will be sold out. Just you wait. It's all about marketing. After that, Europe."

"No way," Patrick breathes out, and Vicky is clearly thrilled to have an enthusiastic audience.

"Yes way." She leans forward, eyes shining. "Paris. London. West Berlin. Rome! Copenhagen! Bombay!"

"Bombay's not in Europe," I note.

"Who the fuck cares? The world will be ours! And trust me, after that, even New York will feel small." She smiles wickedly, wine in one hand, cigarette holder in the other, and it occurs to me that she's living her dream. Good some of us are.

Quarter past. I should leave soon, and I tell my company as much. Vicky lifts a curious eyebrow. "You off to... you know?"

Vicky certainly hasn't invented subtlety.

But yes, I am. She's right. I've spent a ridiculous amount of energy to get Brendon to meet me today. He's impossible to get a hold of these days, but finally we found a time that suited us both. Vicky doesn't seem to like Brendon much. Well, she tolerates him or, rather, the situation. She liked it even less when I gave her Brendon's demos and told her to pass them along. Nepotism at its finest, but it's Brendon. Last time I checked, I'd do anything for the man. This is next to nothing. Vicky was disgruntled but followed my orders, anyway. Now she keeps giving me these looks like it'll all blow up in my face if we're not careful. We're being careful.

Her tone has attracted Jon's attention, and I don't necessarily want them realising that they both know, so I quickly say, "Yes. Appointment at the masseuse's. Work these tensed muscles off." I roll my shoulders for show.

I dig into my pocket for a small bottle, digging out two white pills and knocking them to the back of my throat. I wash them down with the last of my beer. Vicky's staring at me. "What are those?"

"Vitamins. Took your advice on the healthy diet thing." I get up and button up my jacket. "Don't worry, doll," I say, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Vicky's head. She flicks the end of her cigarette holder, getting the ash to fall from the tip. "I'll catch you later. I want to hear more about these tour plans."

As I wave, I feel the pain in my left elbow again. Damn useless limb. The pain killers will kick in soon enough. Besides, right now I have other things to worry about.

He'll be here. He's just late.

He should have been here forty minutes ago, but there are plenty of factors I should take into account: traffic jams, broken down subway trains, losing his keys... Could be anything.

The hotel bed looks like it's never been touched, the cleaners having made it immaculate once more. The rest of it, though, looks lived in: I've brought guitars and clothes over, and he's got clothes here too, now, and the nightstand drawer has five opened lube bottles in it, and his shampoo bottle is in the bathroom next to his toothbrush, and for all intents and purposes, it's a place for two people. But I'm just one.

He said he might not be able to make it, but he'd try. And if he couldn't, he'd call. He's just so busy, he claims. I'm busy too, but I make time for him. Hell, we'd see even four times a week at the start, but now it's once in eight, nine days. Hasn't he noticed that? Because I certainly have. And it's me doing the begging. I'm very aware of that uncomfortable fact.

He hasn't called, though, so he must be on his way. He's just late. Again.

The few times we've gotten together since I got back from Bismarck, we've settled in here. Our time together has been empyrean: sex in the shower, expensive room service snacks, quick naps after sex... his smile. But he's always late and he always leaves too soon.

I had an epiphany in Bismarck: we got nearly twenty hours of exclusive time. We... have never had that before. We have never been alone for that long. And although I had it for such a short time, it was long enough for me to realise that it's what I wanted. I was happier in those twenty hours than I have been in twenty-six years, and now it all feels so hollow when he isn't here. I don't know how to tell him that. I've kept hoping that he can sense it too somehow, but if he could, wouldn't he be here already?

These rooms mean nothing without him.

I wander back out to the living room, the wine glass in my grip. Brendon's armchair is empty, so I sit in it, watching out of the window. I wonder what his favourite feature of our view is, if he has a favourite building. I loosen my tie and hold back sighs that won't make a difference. Why is this starting to feel hauntingly familiar?

He's fifty minutes late when I hear the doorknob being turned and the key getting pushed in. I don't get up from my chair, just look to the doorway, and then he steps in, cheeks flushed like he's been running.

"You're still here," he says, breathing heavily. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

"Still here," I say, but now we've got an hour, and not two hours, because he has to be somewhere again. He always has to be somewhere. I've been living at the studio, but when I've left the building, I've been with him. I've occasionally gone home for fresh clothes and notes from Keltie, like 'Where are you?' and 'Call me at work' and 'I miss you'.

Brendon is quick to take his jacket off, but he doesn't stop there, instantly removing his t-shirt, too. "Sorry about that," he says, a dirty sway to his hips as he makes his way over, and it's nothing. He drops his shirt on the couch casually, his bared upper body inviting, warm, soft, and it's nothing.

It's everything.

He straddles me on the wide armchair, his ass resting on my thighs. He takes my wine glass and finishes it in one go, the wine leaving a hint of dark red on his lower lip. My forefinger slides down his chest slowly, stopping where his ribs end. "Where were you?"

"Stuck on the phone with William. He needed to rant about Carl. They're not doing so well."

"Not all couples are meant to be."

He shrugs, hooking a finger under my chin and tilting my lips upwards. "Guess not," he says and presses our lips together. When I don't kiss him back, he pulls back with a frown. "You alright?" he asks, his hand soothingly carding through my hair.

"Yeah. Sure. I guess I just – I don't know. Thought you were with Shane."

"He's at work," he says in this tone like I should know that, and maybe I should, maybe he mentioned it, but plans change. "And right now I'm here with you, alright?" His voice is soft and gentle, and he kisses me on the lips. "Don't think about him. Three's a crowd."

Yeah. It really fucking is.

"I should've called the hotel that I'd be late. Sorry. Come on, let me apologise," he purrs, coaxing my mouth until I open up for him, and he kisses me deep. I try not to feel cheated that we only get half of the time we were meant to get, that it's taken us days to arrange this. It's getting more and more difficult to see him.

He's unbuttoning my shirt, pushing it off my chest. "I'll blow you," he says, sounding turned on by the mere thought of it. I am too, of course I am, and I try to push it out of my mind, the other guy, and I try not to feel like he's trying to bribe me. Of course he isn't. He isn't.

He moves down to sit on the floor in front of me, unbuckling my belt and kissing my lower stomach, and he'll look so beautiful on his knees for me, he'll look perfect, and I'll close my eyes, lean back, keep my hands in his hair, letting him get me off with his mouth. But with his mouth occupied, we won't be able to talk, and – and right now I have things to say.

"So I was thinking I could take a day off next week. You say which one and we'll meet up here. Breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed."

"Ryan," he says, looking up from where he's sitting between my parted legs. He stares at me incredulously. "I can't disappear for an entire day."

"Since when?"

"Since never. I'm juggling three jobs here, and the documentary is taking up a lot more time now, and the promotion company is organising the dressing rooms for Led Zeppelin, and I've given the club my notice but I'm not quitting for another few weeks, and I would really like to just not think about that and suck you off instead."

My hands are in his soft hair. I cup his cheek, genuinely amused. "You don't have to work, you know." He rolls his eyes at my words like I've said something stupid again, and he'll probably start saying that I've lost touch with the real world. "Quit all of your damn jobs, I'll give you the money, and then you can take days off."

"Maybe I want to work," he says, but come on. Anyone would choose a life of luxury over hard labour.

"Oh, I'd still make you work," I say with a wiggle of my eyebrows, but he doesn't laugh and tell me how wonderful I am. Instead he stands up, shaking his head like he's pissed off. What did I do?

"You never change," he says in this tone that I've heard far too often in the past, and I suddenly know where this is going because we've done it before: I'll say he's stubborn, he'll call me an asshole, and then we'll fight for no reason and feel like shit for no reason until we will eventually make up, yet another scar added onto our relationship. But I'm done with that. If he wants to hate me for caring about him, then fine. Fucking fine. If he wants to slave away because it protects his pride, makes him a self-sufficient young man of his own means, then fine. If that's so important to him.

I don't want to fight with him.

"I just want to see you more often. Is that a crime?"

"No. Of course not." He sighs dramatically. "You could just give me a bit of space."

"Space?" I echo, and when he nods to confirm it, I feel lost. Space? He wants space? My mind can't wrap itself around it. I don't want space. It's the opposite of what I want. When did he decide on this?

"Not like a lot of space," he then amends. "Just... I just need this to be less intense."

"Yeah. Sure." I clear my throat and start buttoning my shirt again. Less intense. Alright. I see. Didn't know I was being too intense for him.

"Hey, don't do that," he objects, now moving back to straddle me. "We talk too much. Come on, been looking forward to this for days." His words have turned from sour to sweet, and then he's kissing me again, moving closer, almost burrowing himself into me, and my arms wrap around his waist and hold him close. More space. Less intense. How is this either of those things?

"Want you to fuck me," he says, his mouth moving to my neck, and my eyes fix on the ceiling. My cock responds, of course it does, and I'll fuck him and love it, of course I will, but I can't shut off my brain. Something about this isn't right.

"It just gets a bit confusing sometimes, you know?" I ask, recalling him telling me that a few months back. It just gets a bit confusing, knowing where the lines are, how the spheres overlap. It's fucking confusing.

"Don't see what's confusing about it," he says, and the most sickening part is that I don't even know when I missed out on that window of opportunity with him. I just suddenly realise that I have.

I slam the door shut, throwing my keys towards the side table, but they end up on the floor, anyway. I'm punishing my apartment for no apparent reason, kicking my shoes off on my way to the living room. My hair is wet from the shower I took at the hotel, and usually I don't shower because I like smelling him on me, smelling of sex, I fucking get off on it, but now I wanted to feel clean.

I empty my pockets of the crap in them, noticing the small note written by the receptionist at the studio, and yeah, yeah, I'll get to it.

I grab a guitar and hide in the music room, not looking at the piano because his ghost is there playing Chopin, back bare, sheets pooled around his waist, looking otherworldly, and he didn't want space then. He didn't want less intensity either. He wanted me.

What changed? Maybe I... Maybe I fucked it all up. In Bismarck.

"Don't be paranoid," I mutter to myself, leaning over the guitar to reach the notepad on the coffee table. "You've still got him." I scribble down lyrics and go back to trying to compose this damn tune that's been stuck in my head for the past twenty minutes.

He's just stressed. He said it himself: three jobs. A boyfriend and a lover. Hell, that'd keep anyone swamped, and he's just tired, exhausting himself. That's all it is. And he tells me to back off because he wants to make it on his own. Okay. That's all it is.

I consider calling Jon and talking to him about it because he is the only person in this world who I can talk about it to, but he made it clear that he doesn't want to know. Keltie would have some amazing advice. She's damn smart about these things. I should ask her without actually asking her.

I don't ever remember feeling this goddamn emotionally drained.

The phone is ringing back out in the living room, but I choose not to react to it. All I know is that it's getting darker outside and that the empty beer bottles keep lining up, and then I'll go to bed at six in the morning, having started some new song ideas, hiding from the world once again. Some rock stars are social whores. Some are even more famous because they try to be unattainable. Chasing the dream, chasing someone on another plane of existence. Vicky spends half her time telling everyone that no, Mr. Ross will not be attending, thank you for the invite. She did try telling me to go to that opening night of some new club, Studio something, but I don't enjoy mingling with famous people. What do we have in common except for our fame? Our arrogance that's come along with it. Well, that's a hoot.

"Hey."

I nearly jump up as my heart skips three beats. "Jesus fucking Christ!" I clutch the guitar to my chest, seeing Keltie walking into the music room. She's got her keys in hand. I forgot she didn't return those yet. "Fuck, you scared me," I say as she looks at the table of bottles and notes. She's wearing one of her favourite dresses, an elegant, black maxi dress, and her hair's up in a bun. I study her further: favourite red high heels, her expensive clutch, her best jewellery... She's dressed up like she's going to a ball, and she's absolutely fucking stunning.

"Where are you going?" I ask her, my eyes finally locking with hers.

"You tell me," she says, and her voice wavers slightly. "I've been trying to get a hold of you for days. Even came by this morning, but –"

"Yeah, I passed out at Gabe's." Not even a lie.

"Of course you did." There's a strain to her words. I don't follow. Seconds tick by with her waiting for something, but when it doesn't happen, she says, "God, Ryan! I've been – been sitting next to my phone all day! I thought – I just thought you were making a show of it, wanting to rile me up, and I sat there in my best clothes waiting for a limo that never arrived! I was so convinced that you were just messing around with me, that you'd come in and sweep me off my feet! I thought, 'He couldn't have forgotten, I've been dropping hints for weeks now!' For weeks, Ryan!"

"It's not your birthday," I say knowledgeably because it's not.

"No! It's our anniversary!" she cries out and then spins around, a hand lifting to her face as she attempts to compose herself. I stare. It is? It is. We got together late March last year, it's late March now... which would suggest that a year has passed and that we have something annual to celebrate. "You forgot," she laughs bitterly out into the room. "God, should've known you're lost in your own head again. Always the goddamned music!"

"I've been recording my new album!" I argue, finally putting the guitar aside and standing up. She's pissed off, that's more than obvious – hell, she just swore, and she's not the swearing kind.

"I know that! I know." She faces me again, apparently having managed to calm down a little. "I'm just tired of you putting us in second place all the time. I hardly ever see you. Might as well be single."

I stare at her in disbelief. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"No! God no! You're not listening to me!"

I'm hearing her alright, but I just don't understand what she's saying. So I forgot our anniversary and, funnily enough, spent my free time today having sex with my gay lover in our Chelsea Hotel tryst. She knows none of this. She's beautiful even in her distress, and something like guilt washes over me. I don't mean to upset her. I don't mean to make her sad, but how can I fix this when she's being cryptic in typical female fashion? She says she's tired of me yet here she is. She says she wants to be single but isn't breaking up with me.

"Look, it's only... a bit after midnight?" I hazard a guess. "Come on, I'll take you out."

"It's too late for that!"

"Then what the hell do you want?" I snap, not meaning to, regretting it when she looks like I've just slapped her. I've had an awful day, I want to tell her, that Brendon is pushing me away and I don't know why. "I'm sorry," I say quickly, but I've clearly stirred up a storm as her eyes flash angrily in a way I've never seen before.

"Where is this relationship going, Ryan?" she asks, and oh god, there's a conversation I don't want to have. "You have to take responsibility! You can't be passive, just going with the flow! There are two people in this: you and me. And I feel like – like I'm giving so much. So much, Ryan! What are you doing?"

"Getting lectured at?" I suggest, which is the wrong thing to say, and god, why don't I just shut the fuck up sometimes? She turns on her heel and walks out of the room, and I follow like a dog that knows it's upset its owner, saying, "Baby, come on, I didn't mean that!"

"You did! And that's the problem!"

She doesn't stop at the front door to give me a chance to ask her to stay, which she then would, and we could make up, and I swear I'd fuck her with thought put into it this time because it is our anniversary, and I have not been this long with anyone in my life. Except Jac. Sure. And Brendon if we could count the time spent apart, which we can't, but I've carried him around for nearly three years. Brendon disqualifies, Jac was... Jac was Jac, but Keltie. She's the kind of girl you marry. She knows this. I pretend not to know this. And she storms out of my apartment, not stopping for the courteous pause at the door to let me change her mind, and instead I end up following her down the stairs as her high heels click against the steps and my bare feet follow.

"Don't be so dramatic!" I tell her on the landing on the fifth floor, but she takes no notice of me. "Keltie, are you honestly making me follow you out into the street? Jesus Christ! It's not like a single day measures up our relationship!"

For once, Shane had a point.

Keltie comes to an abrupt stop and swirls around, her brown eyes boring holes into me. "It does! Right now, it really does! You don't take me seriously at all, do you? You just take me for granted! God, they're right, they're –"

"Who's they?" I ask, descending a few steps. "Oh, let me guess! Your Rockette friends, right? Suzanne, Megan and Poppy? You all gather round, do you, and talk about me? Is that what you do?" She doesn't reply, which is as much of a reply as I need. "God, I don't need you gossiping all over fucking New York about me! Shit, Vicky would get pissed if she knew that –"

"Oh, Vicky! Now there's a girl you do spend time with! She doesn't have to stand around waiting for your calls, she –"

"Would you get over Vicky already? It's like you want me to sleep with her! I mean, if that's it, let me know! I'm sure she'd be up for it!"

Her jaw line's been drawn tight, her mouth twitching as her eyes are brimmed by unshed tears, but no, I am done with this. If we don't evolve, we die. It's true for us, and it's true for Brendon and me, and Keltie really needs to let go of these ancient insecurities. "How can you say that to me?" she asks.

"It's easy when all I hear is bullshit."

"I..." Her voice fades, and she descends a few steps, looking horrified. She opens up her clutch bag, going through the contents quickly. "Here. I don't want to carry this around anymore." She throws a silver plectrum at my feet. It's not one of mine. "It's made from a meteorite. Throw it out, do whatever you will, I don't even care." She keeps going down the stairs, but I don't go after her. Instead I sit down on the steps, head between my hands, a sudden headache taunting me.

The pick lies a step down from me, a round cornered triangle. It's engraved 'R+K', and I wonder when she got it done. Weeks ago, knowing her. She's always on top of these things.

I'm just tearing everything apart.

For Brooklyn standards, it's not bad. I never really envisioned it much, I just assumed that the place would look ratty and poor, not nice like this. It's modest looking, a simple red-bricked building with a lot of straight lines and medium-sized rectangular windows. I'm so caught up in staring at it, of visualising the life it contains, that life I've never seen, that I almost miss my chance of an old woman coming out of the door. I hurry to hold the door open for her, and she says, "Thank you, dear," takes one look at me, seems frightened, and hurries down the steps while I slip in.

I probably look like a mess. I haven't slept. Bet Keltie's crying on the phone to Poppy about how shit I am. But the hours haven't been in vain because I've been thinking. I've been thinking a lot, and one phone call later, here I am: 128 Montague Street.

The staircase is narrow and the paint is peeling, and I walk up to the second floor, keeping my eyes on the door numbers. I hesitate before knocking. Ask myself if I really want to do this, but then it occurs to me that it doesn't matter. I haven't been sure of anything in years, but I've managed to survive.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Wait. Hold breath. Goddammit. Knock, knock, knock knock knock knock.

"Hold your damn horses!" a voice yells from the other side, but I'm just that annoyingly gone where I act on my impulses, yet I know that I could stop myself if I put my mind to it, and no, I will not hold my horses. Figuratively. Because I have none. Horses, that is.

When Brendon opens the door, he isn't expecting it to be me. A neighbour, maybe, or the mailman or, I don't know, someone not me. He's in a pair of dark blue pyjama pants, nothing else although it's nearing eleven o'clock and respectable people are dressed by now, and he looks so... homey. The fabric is faded and fluffy, and he looks like he was watching some TV or maybe was doing the dishes or something utterly domestic that I can't for the life of me imagine him doing. We stare at each other, me in fascination, him mostly in shock.

He says, "How do you know where I live?" Not even, 'What are you doing here?'

"Vicky," I explain, but he still seems just as stunned. "'You want to come in, Ryan?' Don't mind if I do! Thanks." I push past him, knowing that Shane isn't home. I know this because he was in a meeting with Vicky when I called.

And then I'm there. His home. Their home.

It looks like two guys with on and off jobs live in it. It's messy and it's cluttered, and it – it's got such a lived in feel to it. Shane's artwork is all over the living room walls, sometimes in frames, sometimes just stuck to it with a few pins. Film rolls are piled up on a side table next to a camera that's next to a framed photograph of Shane and Brendon, arms on each other's shoulders, smiling at the camera, the background – looks like the Golden Gate Bridge, is the Golden Gate Bridge. Piles of laundry have taken over the green couch, waiting to be put away, and the furniture looks worn down and old, and Brendon's guitars and bass are in the corner next to an amp, and a pile of vinyl is on the floor, and the place is clearly too small for them. But it's inevitably theirs. They walk through that door and exhale in relief of being back home.

"I could do with a drink," I say, but Brendon looks at me cautiously, folding his arms over his bare chest. He looks gorgeous. "Kitchen this way?" I walk through the open door to the narrow kitchen, no room for a dining table anywhere, it seems, and open the fridge and help myself to a beer that's next to a half-eaten block of cheese. I had all these grand speeches stuck in my head on the subway, and now I've forgotten all of them.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, leaning against the kitchen doorway. His pyjama pants are low on his waist, I can see the start of his pubic hair, and god, it's distracting.

"Am I not welcome?" I take a sip. "Is my presence here making you feel uncomfortable?" A note pad lying on the kitchen counter, Brendon's handwriting 'Shane – your mother called, wants us to come visit her this summer?' "Did I need to be invited here?" I ask, my mind reeling over the thought of Shane's mother even knowing what homosexuality is.

"You came barging in here! You look like hell, what are – Shit." He sounds like he's only now getting it. "Has something happened? Is your dad okay?"

"My dad...? Fuck, he's fine. I've just. I've been thinking. Ever since yesterday, been thinking about all this space and intensity, and Keltie had some smart things to say about relationships, she –"

"Keltie?"

"Yeah, she's a damn smart girl. Especially when she's mad."

"Oh my god, you told her." He's gone visibly pale. He looks nauseous.

"I didn't fucking tell her." I finish half the bottle with the second sip.

"You guys had a fight?" he then asks, and we did, yes, I made her feel like shit, I ruined her day, week, life, I'm no good, I'm scum, she deserves great things, that girl, and does Brendon expect me to talk to him about this? About my guilt and how shitty I feel right now?

"This isn't about us, I mean Keltie and me us. It's about us. Because I've been thinking," I declare once more, trying to gather my thoughts, or rather Keltie's thoughts. "There are two people involved in this relationship: you and me. And what are you contributing to this? I feel like I'm doing all the work here. That's what I feel like, and it gets better: I know what I want. Or what I don't. I don't want space and I don't want it to be less intense, and I can't understand why you do. Now it's your turn. Go." I put the bottle down on the counter and stare at him expectantly. He looks like he certainly didn't expect this.

When it's clear that I'm not getting an answer, I walk past him because I'm not done looking around yet. The room next to the kitchen is the second bedroom, the one Brendon proudly informed me that they don't even use, but they need as a cover. Can't have the landlord knowing they're two fags. Well, no. This area didn't look like his precious Castro with rainbow flags at shop fronts. This is a respectable neighbourhood. The bed in the second bedroom is hidden by all the boxes on it: it's a storage room more than anything else.

"How about we talk about this when you're not drunk?" he suggests, following me like a hawk. Probably worries that I'll start breaking shit.

"Good guess, but I'm not drunk." I'm not. I haven't had anything to drink, and if I'm a mess, then it's him and my thoughts and Keltie, all messing me up.

I cross the living room and – jackpot. Their bedroom. I stand in the doorway, taking in the messed up sheets on the bed that looks more than slept in. Oh, it's been put to use alright. It's the only room that looks organised, the sheets matching the curtains, books on the nightstand, a few candles there, even. I see them lying on that bed, naked, kissing and laughing, and I had to see it for myself. Had to come all the way here to see it. And the smell. Fuck, the smell. "Oh god," I laugh mostly out of desperation. Oh god, why did I come here?

"What?" he asks, now sounding nervous. He reaches for the doorknob and closes the door like he doesn't want me there. Like that part isn't meant for me. I've dragged him through all of my sheets. We've made my bed a playground. I let him in.

I pull him into my arms, hugging him tight, and he doesn't respond because he's not expecting it, but he eventually hugs back, all muscles tense like he doesn't trust me right now. I breathe him in. No, I fucking sniff him, like a dog, nose against his neck, down his shoulder, to his armpit, and don't tell me this, don't fucking kid me right now.

My hand slides down to his lower back and, without an invitation, slips inside his pyjama pants. And it's familiar by now, nothing strange in me sliding my fingers between his cheeks, but it's not to tease him and it's not done slowly, but to get a quick brush of my fingers against his hole before he manages to stop me. His breathing hitches. He steps back, my hand slipping out. My fingers are wet. I squeeze his hip with my other hand, say, "You're kidding me. You've got to be kidding me." And then I let go, step back, mind spinning, wiping my fingers against my pants. "When'd he fuck you? This morning?" The sheets and the smell, recently, definitely. "Right. Of course. You're always horny in the mornings, aren't you?" The venom in my words is deliberate. He catches it easily enough.

"Don't be a dick, Ryan."

"I could note the various ironies in that particular sentence, but baby, I think I'll refrain." It's like an out of body experience where I'm me but I'm not me. I know it's going to hit me any second now, any second, so I try to stick to the complete and utter incomprehension for as long as I can. "Should I volunteer for sloppy seconds?" I loosen my tie. "Or was he the sloppy second? Because I did fuck you yesterday and I did make you come. You can't fake it. That's the glory of fucking men."

"Unbelievable," he mutters. "You come here uninvited, to my home, and then you pull this shit on me? Your mother really could've taught you some manners before bailing out on you."

I want to say, 'Your dad really could've taught you how to not be a faggot before breaking your arm', because if he wants to go down that road, then I will. Oh, how I will. But before I can astound him with my amazing comebacks of highly intellectual content, he says, "You think Shane and I never fuck anymore?" He sounds disbelieving.

I was under the impression that they don't. Anniversary sex aside, no. Of course they don't.

But they do. God, he stinks of Shane. Hasn't even showered. There he is, standing right there, with Shane's load up his ass, probably feeling all nice and warm and fuzzy about it, the way I felt after he fucked me, that stupid fucking feeling of contentment. "Did you enjoy it?" I ask, and calm fury is appearing on his features. I'll match his fury and raise him betrayal. What does he want me to say? That it hurts? That now my mind is full of these- these fucking visuals, and I can hardly breathe? "Well? Did he make you come? Did he? Did you get off?" He says nothing. I take two steps closer, and yeah, it's hitting home now, the fact of what he's done is settling in. "Did you suck his cock?" I stress every syllable. He bends. He breaks.

"Yes!" he barks angrily. "I let him fuck my mouth and then my ass, and I fucking loved it. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Shut up! You stupid fucking asshole! Are you trying to make me go punch his lights out?"

"Punch him...?" he repeats, clearly lost. He laughs. It's a cold laugh that sends shivers down my spine. "Ryan." Condescending as ever. "He's my boyfriend."

"And what am I? What exactly am I?" I yell, demanding to know, but he doesn't have the answer. Of course he doesn't. He doesn't think about us. But I do. I have been. Keltie, she's got some real insight, she does. I pace back and forth in their small living room, and something stronger than anger is coursing through my veins, sucking the sunlight out of the day until it's all black. "I don't want him touching you."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't want him touching you!"

"Are you at all aware of how psychotic you sound right now?"

I come to a stop. "You think I'm being unreasonable?"

Nothing is more reasonable. He's mine. He belongs to me, his kisses, his laughter, his smiles, and I'm not sharing.

"Ryan! You've – You've watched another guy fuck me!" he exclaims in exasperation. "Remember, in LA? You didn't mind him touching me. You fucking loved it, and I loved you watching!"

"So we once had a threesome. What's your fucking point?"

"That we have never been exclusive, you and I!"

And that's my fault. Probably. For a while on tour, he was only sleeping with me. Pretty sure that he was, and he probably would have been happy only sleeping with me, but I couldn't – commit. I couldn't let myself think of him in those terms, but that was almost three damn years ago now. We had a threesome. Okay. I have good memories of it. Standard jerk off material. But that was before, and if he thinks for a second I'd ever invite someone into bed with us again, he's wrong. I was stupid, is that what he wants me to say? That I was stupid that summer, made some mistakes?

He has managed to halt my attack momentarily, long enough for him to aim his archers at me and tell them to fire. He says, "And what about Keltie? Don't you fuck her?"

Should've seen that one coming.

"Don't bring her into this."

"Girls don't count?" he laughs angrily. "Fuck you! Sex is sex."

"You know nothing about Keltie and you know nothing about us! So shut up because that's different! Her and the LA kid, that's all different!"

"How?"

"Because I say so!"

And they're different from him sleeping with Shane. LA kid, barely remember what he looked like. He never mattered. We used the kid. Brendon wasn't playing house with him, Brendon wasn't sharing his bed with him, Brendon wasn't smiling in pictures with him. That kid was insignificant, and Shane is not. Shane matters to Brendon. This life. This other life he's got, the Ryanless one, matters to him a fucking lot. And that's why he wants space. Wants it to be less intense. That's why he's avoiding me: because he's clinging onto this.

It's a bit too late for him to change his mind. He can't go back and forth on this no-man's-land. He can't give himself to me and then share himself with others. It's not his decision to make. He isn't allowed to have that kind of intimacy with others. It ridicules what we have. It tears me apart. He should know that.

"I don't want anyone else touching you. Just me. You're reserved for me."

His stare is icy. "You can't order me around."

"You so sure about that?"

"You're so fucked up," he says disbelievingly, like he didn't realise this is who I am. "Maybe you should go."

"But you don't want me to go. You want me to fuck you." He looks insulted, but I unbutton my jacket slowly. "You're always up for a second round, Brendon. We know that. Don't tell me he fucked you twice because I won't buy it."

"Time you leave," he says, marching over and grabbing my arm, pulling me, and it's history repeating itself, him throwing me out of his kingdom, like none of it matters to him. These past few months. But it's not my fault this time, it can't be.

I take hold of his shoulders, forcing him to face me, and I kiss him, pulling his half-dressed body to me. He tries to push me back, but he can't do it because he doesn't really want to push me back. He bites on my tongue, though, and my mouth retreats. "Son of a –"

"Let go of –"

I kiss him again, don't care that it stings, force him to open up for me. His hands are on my hips, trying to push me off, but I press him against the wall, the picture frames shaking. I push one hand into the back of his pants again, at an awkward angle, my wrist protesting, but I get my fingers between his cheeks, and I get two fingers into his stretched hole. He comes to a complete still, his breath quickening. I kiss him again, and he doesn't fight back now, just stands still, and I work my fingers in deeper, becoming coated in Shane's semen. Brendon's hole is so slick. Shane had fun.

My tongue pushes against his, and I keep at it until he shudders and his body presses against mine. He kisses me back, groaning at the back of his throat. It's almost too easy.

"You'd love for me to fuck you right now," I tell him, our mouths pressing together. I feel his entire body yearning for it. It's too easy to flick that switch inside him. He's breathing hard, his hands pulling on my shirt, trying to tuck it out of my pants. Our bruised lips press together. A bit of yelling, an adrenalin rush... "You'd love for me to fuck your tight, come-filled hole. You'd get off on it." My hand pulls back from his hole, my fingertips running up his vertebrae. "I'd drag you to your bed, yours and Shane's, and fuck you there until the bed broke. You'd be on your hands and knees, the picture of you and Shane on the nightstand watching you get fucked so hard. Would you let me? Huh? Come on, would you let me?"

My lips hover over his, and I stare into his lust-filled eyes. His cheeks are rosy, and his body is thrumming. He's hard, I feel it against me. Humiliation, anger, I see it all there in his eyes, but it loses to desire. He breathes out, "Yes."

Yes. Of course it's a yes.

I take a hold of his shoulders once more, my forehead pressed to his. "See, the thing is, Brendon... the thing is. That the thought alone repulses me." I step back, my eyes darting to the closed bedroom door. Their bed.

Nothing is holy to him. He's trying to salvage whatever he has with Shane, and what for? What does any of it even mean to him?

"You said you wanted space, and all it takes to get you on your knees for me is a little bit of dirty talk? Fuck," I laugh, shaking my head. "You tell me who's fucked up. You tell me that." I try to breathe, but it hurts. My eyes fly over his form, his erection that's visible at the front of his pants, his reddened cheeks and swollen lips. He'll never stop being beautiful to me, but it's more than obvious that he doesn't realise that. And he's ashamed. Ashamed of this. "God, take a look at yourself," I whisper. Spoiled goods. Too spoiled even for me.

Unlike Keltie, I have enough theatrical flair to stop at the door. He's still pressed to the wall, heaving, staring at me with wide eyes.

"I meant what I –" My throat closes off. Suddenly, the memory makes me feel humiliated. I don't know what I was thinking. God, what was I thinking? "I meant what I said. In Bismarck. It's taken me all this time to realise you're pretending it never even happened. Fuck, that's... that's just great," I laugh, my voice breaking. My chest feels hollow, and I hang my head in shame of myself. He probably wishes that I had kept my mouth shut, blurting out something so stupid. "Enjoy your space."

I don't bother closing their door as I walk out, leaving him to his game of playing everyone around him. He's a walking disaster, probably clueless as to what the hell he even wants, but I still know that what we've got is too good to lose or to cheapen, something too good for a dirty affair, and if he – if he doesn't realise that... If he doesn't want that. Doesn't want what I've been offering like a fucking idiot.

He doesn't come after me. Of course not.

Outside, the spring sun shines bright. I stand on my own two feet and try to remember who the hell I am without him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 7: A Thing of Beauty/Slip Away**

The café owner never tries to make any money off of me. When I walk in, shoulders hunched, head hung low, she just greets me, tells the waitress to bring me some black coffee, and motions me to the table in the corner that she knows I like the best. I can see out into the street, but people can't see me. The place is only two blocks from my place, at the heart of the neighbourhoods where I tend to make myself known, but the café's under the radar. It's not a place you'd find Gabe having a hangover cure in, or any of the rockers or artists around these parts because the place isn't romantic. It's sandwiched between a shoe store and a rare coins shop that I've never seen anyone in, and I haven't brought Keltie here or Gabe or Jon or Eric, not even Brendon. It's my own place. It's got an old soul.

It was a damn smart move for me to keep one place to myself. Keep one plain corner table with a wobbly chair to myself.

I place my hat on the table. Remove my sunglasses. The girl brings me coffee. She doesn't look at me and she doesn't ask questions, and I get out my notebook.

"How's the album going, Ryan?"

I look up towards the counter where Eleanor is looking at me with a motherly smile. "It's going well, El. It's done."

"You don't say." She scratches her greying head, her wedding ring still on her finger. Her husband died last year. Cancer, I think. "I'll be buying it."

"I'll send you a copy." She looks like she's about to protest, so I say, "Don't even try to argue with me. I'll sign it for you. It might even be worth some money one day."

She nods, a small smile stretching on her face. "Well, thank you, Ryan. That'd be sweet of you."

"Don't mention it," I say and start working on the snippets of lyrics that have been circling in my head the past few days. I don't know what they're for because it's like I said: the album is done. We finished the last song last night, and the official party is taking place tomorrow. I've worked out the track list. I've given it a title. The guys are excited, the label even more so: they sent me a fruit basket.

I'm so tired of life.

The black ink swirls on the white page, my eyes following the loops and the curves. It's a sunny day, of course, just to let me know that I don't have the right to be miserable. And spring is time for lovers. Yeah, what lovers? Keltie isn't taking my calls, and I'm not taking Brendon's. Lovers. I sent Keltie flowers, too, but she never called to thank me. And now I walk around SoHo, sunglasses and hat, seeing lovers holding hands, arms around each other's waists, laughing into each other's necks. They always come out during spring. It's a seasonal thing. Turn, turn, turn.

The coffee is bitter and too hot, burning my tongue, but I don't mind. The white porcelain is almost too hot to hold. I feel the odd shape of the Chelsea Hotel key ring in my pocket, and I don't know why I carry it around. Right now, that temporary haven is the last place where I want to be.

I did a foolish thing.

I write down a few more lines, and they all seem like they don't connect, but they do, or they will. It's like I'm looking at the pages with a magnifying glass, missing the bigger picture.

At least he has called, but I told him that it wasn't a good time and that I was going out, and then eventually I just hung up on him. He hasn't called since. I couldn't deduce anything from the sound of his voice: was he going to tell me that I'm an asshole or that he was sorry? I don't know. Maybe even he doesn't. Maybe I said some stupid things, or I represented my feelings in an idiotic fashion, but I meant what I said: I don't want other people touching him. Not the way I touch him. And now I lie in bed at night, seeing him arch into the touch of anonymous men, and I've never felt whatever it makes me feel. A knife to my chest and dragged downwards as he succumbs in throes of passion across town. I'm on a quest to find some well-hidden piece of him from an infinite labyrinth full of dead ends. I'm blindfolded and desperate. I can't seem to get a hold of him.

Eleanor's got the radio on, and I feel mocked and ridiculed when that stupid number one hit from a few months back comes on. I heard it on the radio plenty then, but I never thought anything of it. Now a silent anger bubbles in me when the girl sings, "You mustn't think you've failed me just because there's someone else," and she then proceeds to wail about how hard it is for her to be in love with two men. She's an angel, though, this girl. She's torn apart by it. I don't know if Brendon's sorry or angry, but he's not torn. He said it himself: it's not confusing to him.

I'd love to see inside his head, see how it operates. See what exactly he thinks of me, and what he thinks of Shane, and how exactly do those differ? But I can't read his mind, and he will never tell me.

I can't lose something I've never had. Can't lose someone I never had.

I did such a foolish thing.

I keep thinking of that Auden poem, writing his words on the paper distractedly. Over and over again.

So I pity myself. Someone's got to. Fuck, I used to be so much stronger than this. None of this would have affected me a year ago, six months ago. I need to put that armour back on, find that battered shield. It was potentially lethal to take it off.

"Ryan. Hey!"

I start, looking up from the page to see a man standing by my table. In my café. In this one place where I thought I'd be safe in this city of millions. My insides feel frozen. Fuck you, universe. Go on, ridicule me further then. Go on. Because here he is.

"Mind if I sit down?" Shane asks good-naturedly with that familiar nervous edge to his words. He'll never get rid of all the amazement he feels at the sight of me.

I don't want him to sit down. He can go home and obsessively listen to his Followers records and jerk off to the mental image of Joe Trohman on stage. He seems the type.

"Sure. Go ahead." I push the other chair with my leg. Sit down, then. Mock me.

"What a coincidence running into you!" he laughs, taking a seat, placing a rolled up newspaper on the table, carefully lowering the camera bag that's hanging from his shoulder. He sees me looking at it. "Just been taking some pictures here and there. Then it's off for my last shift at Eric's. Been working there since we moved to New York, so that's kind of scary, but the documentary is a full-time project now." I look at his mouth. Try to determine if he's a good kisser. If it's a sensual mouth or a soft mouth or – "What are you writing?"

I drop my gaze onto the page, sharing my table, my coffee, my notes with the other man. The legitimate one. "'The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.'" I take another sip of my coffee, not looking at the mouth that kisses Brendon. "W.H. Auden."

"I don't recognise it. I don't read much poetry."

"I do."

Something like embarrassment flickers on his face. Did he take Brendon slow or did he take Brendon hard? Does he make love or does he fuck? And how many times since then have they copulated? Brendon's got an insatiable libido. Someone's got to do the job.

The girl brings him coffee, and he seems unnerved now. "Is this a bad time?" He looks at my notes like the morbid tone has put him off. Yes, it is a bad time. We're living in bad times, can't he tell? Maybe he fucked Brendon last night. Maybe he hasn't showered, maybe I should start sniffing him too, see if I can smell it. But I don't want to know. God, if knowing turns me into this zombie I've been, going between rage and loss and anger and sorrow and confusion and pain and then rage again, then I'd rather not know.

I say, "I'm in love, and it's not going so well." I close the notebook and gaze out of the window.

A sympathetic, understanding expression takes over his features. "I, uh... I did hear something about you and Keltie going through a rough time." He holds a pause so that I can comment if I want to. I don't. He smiles even more sympathetically. "I'm sure she'll come around, Ryan. I mean, all couples have their disagreements."

"I suppose you're right, but I just don't see much of a future there right now." I don't even know who I'm talking about anymore, but the words still ring true. "Have you ever cheated on Brendon?"

And would he be stupid enough to tell me?

He looks surprised by the change of topic, his cheeks turning red like me asking something so personal has got him flustered. "No. No, of course not."

"Because I thought gays slept around a lot."

"Some do. Some of us want relationships. Want to settle down." But Brendon's too cute to settle down. Was three years ago, still is today. Shane brushes stray hairs behind his ear. "To be honest with you, Brendon and I had a bad winter. We barely saw each other. But, you know, when you love someone that much, you find them again. Life was less hectic when you guys were in Bismarck, and we got to spend time together again. Maybe you and Keltie need to do that too."

He's giving me relationship advice. Telling me where I went wrong: leaving. Leaving Brendon unguarded. While I was writing him songs, he slipped away from me. Is that what I'm supposed to conclude?

I close my eyes. I see Brendon there, night three of a New York without me. Thinking of me. Lying in bed, boxers on, staring at the ceiling, feeling lonely and restless, thoughts wandering to Bismarck and what I'm doing and if I'm missing him yet. Shane walks into the room, and they're ready to go to bed, and Shane says how nice it'll be that he can sleep in for once, and then Shane stops slightly, realising that he's got a thing of beauty in his bed, or, no – No, maybe Brendon looks at Shane, thinks, 'There's a way not to feel lonely', or maybe the two things happen simultaneously, and the first touch, well, it's hesitant because it's been a while, and they're nervous, but then months of pent up passion or longing (on whose side?) gets unleashed, and it's so hot to the touch. And the next night they do it again. And Brendon doesn't have to miss me. He realises that he never really even did.

Maybe I had lost my chance before he ever even got to Bismarck.

"You know anything about tour rules?" I ask quietly. Shane shakes his head and looks intrigued. I get out a cigarette. Try to pull my way out of this quicksand. "I'll tell you. Seeing as we'll be hitting the road in a few months, you should know these things." I go through my pockets, but he's quick to get out matches and light one for me. I lean in, suck in smoke, blow it out from the corner of my mouth. He drops the match into the ashtray. "Thanks." I rest my elbows on the table. "Firstly, drugs and alcohol are at everyone's own discretion as long as, and I stress this, you're still able to do your job. If you're too fucked to do it, I'll fire you."

"Oh, I wouldn't –"

"I'm not saying you would. You just need to know this, and you need to let your crew know. You're responsible for them."

He nods, alert and listening. Docile like a dog. He'd probably even want to take notes.

It rarely happens that a crew member is too out of it to function, and we used to laugh it off if someone missed soundcheck because they were wandering along hotel corridors shitfaced, incoherently mumbling about walking in crystal forests of magic lights. It's nice to have ideals, though. Something to aim for.

I don't think of our _Jackie_ tour and me drinking too much and getting myself arrested and starting fights and stirring shit up. But that was another tour with a band that hated itself. I don't want to go through that again.

"We're a band on tour, so it's perfectly okay for things to get wild, and they _will_ get wild, but just... keep your head on. Don't OD. Don't sleep with a minor. The basic shit." He looks shocked. Clearly he hasn't been in our circles long enough to get these basics covered. "There'll be groupies, of course. It's okay to bang them, that's what they want. Use a condom, though, they're not necessarily clean. Don't believe them if they say they've got a diaphragm or that they're on the pill, that's the oldest trick in the book for them to knock themselves up." I flick my cigarette over the ashtray. Keltie's words come to mind, about me smoking when I'm nervous. Bullshit. There's no link. "And significant others back home... are back home." I let out a heavy sigh. "The oldest tour rule is that it's not cheating when you fuck around on tour. You're allowed to. And no one is stupid enough to say anything of it to whoever's waiting for you back home."

"Good thing Brendon's coming on tour with us, then," he laughs nervously, as an icebreaker. "Or that I'll be on tour to keep my eye on him." He's trying to make it into a joke, but he's right. If he wants to keep Brendon in his life, he needs to keep Brendon under constant surveillance.

I stare at him calmly. "You think he'd cheat on you?"

He looks offended. He can't be right for Brendon. He _can't_ be if he can't even see what's right in front of his eyes: me. The way I look at Brendon. Jon said that it's written all over my face, and Jon said that Brendon looks at me differently from Shane, and if Shane can't see it by now, can't sense the tension whenever Brendon and I are in the same room together, then he doesn't know Brendon at all, can't read him, or can read him even less than I do, and he doesn't deserve Brendon, _he_ doesn't deserve to be the guy who gets to take Brendon home.

I want to say, 'Be offended, go on. Be offended. It's nothing compared to the confusion and loss I feel.'

"Look, what I'm trying to say is that you'll be walking around with that camera crew, and plenty of shit will happen that can't be on that documentary, alright? Like the drugs. And the underage girls that Gabe will sleep with. You make sure that you don't as much as accidentally film that." He nods conscientiously, all serious like. "And Keltie isn't coming on tour, she's got her own show. But I care about her. I wouldn't want to hurt her. And so, when you see me taking off with women, you make sure no one's filming. I don't want anyone asking stupid questions." I scratch my neck, the words now forming in my head, and I take a drag of the cigarette and take a sip of the lukewarm coffee. This bit never gets easier. This bit makes my heart race like that of some tiny rodent every damn time. "And sometimes... sometimes, you'll see me take off with men instead. And you don't need to pay any attention to that either."

Shane lets out a burst of laughter, eyes sparkling like I got him with that one. I stare at him blankly. I fuck men. I fuck his boyfriend.

"Oh, come on. April Fool's Day was last week," he says, smile lopsided. He seems touched that I decided homosexuality would make a good joke, like it's a nod towards him. I take a long sip of my coffee and open my notebook again, finding a new page and scribbling down a few more lines that pop into my head. I feel his eyes on me, and I can see in my mind's eye how his facial expression changes from amused to shocked, his pupils widening, his mouth maybe even dropping open. "You're... you're being serious."

"You're not a homophobic homo, are you?" I ask incredulously, quickly adding, "I'm not a fag. I just sleep with men too. I thought it'd be better for you to know. And on tour, well, plenty to choose from." I feel nauseous. "I imagine I'll be pretty busy."

Faceless, nameless bodies, young women with tight pussies, virgin boys with tight asses. Bodies. Meat.

"I need a glass of water," Shane announces, his face a sickly pale. He gets up quickly and hurries to the counter. Well, this is a new reaction.

I push all the whirlwind of regret and sorrow into that broken, pathetic part of me that's spilling all over the pages of my notebook, and I try to focus here. Shane is my competition. He's the enemy. If he weren't around, messing it all up for me, Brendon would be mine already.

I can work with this. Turn Shane into a weapon. My next move. I used to be so good at this, but now I just mope around like that will somehow make me look like the better option. Shane thanks Eleanor for the glass of water, and I recompose myself and tell myself to man the fuck up, and by the time he sits down again, I feel... lighter. Calmer.

Colder.

"You alright, Valdes?" I ask, and he nods hurriedly, guzzling the water. "You seem a bit surprised."

He laughs in a 'oh fuck get me out of here' way, trying to avoid eye contact. "Yeah, uh. I just. I never imagined that you might... I mean. You're. Fuck, you're Ryan Ross. You're – you're famous, everyone knows you, and you'd – you'd imagine that something like that couldn't be kept. Secret. Or I mean. That there'd be rumours or... But fuck, I had no idea."

I drop the stub of my cigarette into the rest of my coffee. It makes a hissing sound and sinks. That's the point. That no one has any idea. I can't go around admitting that I've, well, tried to suck cock.

Eleanor is leaning against the counter. Looks like she's trying to do a crossword again. I need to come here more often. She hums to the tune on the radio, and I feel like I'm ten-years-old and Jackie's asleep in my lap, whimpering in her dog dreams, and I can hear the humming from the kitchen where my grandmother who is not my grandmother is doing the dishes, and I try to memorise that seven times eight is fifty-six. That's why I come to this café. For the split moments that this woman's presence reminds me of someone else's.

Shane Valdes looks like he has never been more shocked in his life.

"I'm discreet. That's what it's all about," I say. "So don't tell anyone about this, alright?"

"Yeah. Of course not."

"I mean it. No one."

He nods hurriedly. "No one."

I miss him more than I can stand.

"Why would you tell Shane?" Brendon asks, voice raised either because he's angry or because he has to compete with the noise that's coming from the party taking place behind the doors of the studio lounge. The music is thumping through, a celebration with the band and the production team, Shane and four film crew guys asking everyone how they feel with cameras on their shoulders, cables zigzagging across the floor. Brendon is pale and upset and yelling at me. "He's asking all kinds of questions now! About The Followers and if I noticed anything when I was a roadie for you guys, if I ever picked up any vibes, he even – He even asked if you've ever come onto me!"

"Well, what'd you say? Have I… ever come onto you?" I let my eyes slowly, slowly roam over his body.

"Of course I said no, lied through my teeth. What do you think?" he asks. He's scared. He's jumpy. I wonder if it went down like I pictured it, Shane bursting through the door with, 'Ryan fucks men!' And at that moment, Brendon sitting there on their couch, eyes wide as saucers, did he think, 'Oh god. Ryan told Shane'? Maybe. Brendon seems thoroughly shaken, and maybe he really thought that I went to his better half and told Shane why exactly he and Brendon were distant this winter. "God, you shouldn't have done that. I don't know what to tell him. I don't know what - Fuck, why'd you do that?"

"Because of the tour. The documentary." I lick my lips slightly. "The men I'll be fucking."

He lets out a deep, unnerved breath and crosses his arms, maybe a sign of annoyance. Who knows? I watch the muscles of his forearms, the way they're pronounced through the skin. The t-shirt is grey. It's new. He leans his back against the wall of the wide corridor, made with the transportation of instruments and other equipment in mind, and the sound of laughter echoes from the party. I look the opposite way, to the double doors that lead to the reception. I don't want to be here.

"You've just made everything harder," he sighs, and I want to ask him when exactly was it meant to be easy. "That was a stupid move."

"Well, he can't exactly unknow it now, can he? I did what I had to do."

"For the documentary."

"Exactly," I lie.

He looks at me with what could be disappointment. I don't want to stand here to be scrutinised by him, for him to come up with a million new reasons why I'm a failure. "You've made your point. Alright?" he asks quietly. Which point was that? "Not taking my calls, avoiding me... Your tour plans. I guess you're over me then. What with all these other men you want to do instead." His tone is challenging. I don't take the bait. He swears under his breath, jaw line tense. "I'm sorry. Okay? When you – When you came to our apartment, that was a- a weird situation that neither one of us was prepared for. We didn't handle it very well. It was stupid, and we should forget about it. Go back to the way it was."

"The way it was?" I echo. But the way it was wasn't working. Doesn't he realise that?

"Yeah. Before Bismarck and all of that. Things were really good between us, remember?"

I do. They were amazing. We were amazing.

Shane thinks they've rekindled since. I don't know if that's the reason why Brendon and I seem to be miles apart from each other. Brendon hasn't said a word of it to me, not even when I got back from Bismarck and we slipped back into our daydream: we'd eat ice cream in bed, enjoying post-coital chatting about music, calling room service for some vanilla to go with the chocolate, and I remember how he lay there, nothing but some sheets covering his crotch, laughing as I dived in for an ice cream kiss. Desperately wanting to pretend that nothing had changed. But it had. I could detect his guilt – it was penetrating our world, bursting our bubble. He pulled away from all the kisses too quickly.

He never said a word about him and Shane and still clearly doesn't plan to.

"We just need to be more careful," he says gently. "Shane's paying attention now."

"Go back to the way it was and be more careful," I recap for him.

He wants to go back in time. Before I told him how I felt. Before I told him that I knew he didn't want to acknowledge how I felt.

That's two times he is choosing to ignore. Deny, deny, deny. Hell, we've done it before. I've done just that before, and Jac, god, Jac out of all people comes to my mind, sitting in a bar with me, suspicious eyes on me – 'You're not in love with him, are you?' No. No, no, no. I was so good at it. I was so fucking good at it.

If I did it once, I can do it again.

"Are you coming to any of the Led Zep shows this week?" he asks, and yeah, I forgot about that, that he and his team are spending the next seven nights making sure that the dressing rooms of Madison Square Garden have enough beers and sandwiches. His grand finale. He's giving up everything for the documentary project: quitting his club job to come on tour, having at least postponed the actual job offer made by the promotion company now that his internship is at an end. I don't know if I should be surprised that they want to keep Brendon on. Who wouldn't?

"At some point, yeah. See how Bonzo's doing," I say, shrugging.

"Yeah? Because those things can easily drag on, and, well, it's easy for me to disappear for a few hours before going home, so..." He trails off, inviting me back to our bed. I don't know if I'm ready to join him there. When I say nothing, annoyance flickers on his face. "Come on. It's stupid fighting about this."

I push hair from my forehead, avoiding eye contact. "Is it?"

He doesn't say anything, but his attempt at a warm smile disappears.

The door to the reception opens, and the receptionist girl whose name I have not bothered to learn seems relieved at the sight of us. "Mr. Ross," she says. "I tried calling the lounge, but I don't think they can hear the phone in there. I've got Miss Colleen on the line for you."

I instantly feel more alert. "Connect it to the control room," I request, and she nods, hurrying to do just that. Brendon's lips have pursed, but he says nothing. I don't want to finish having this conversation. "You should join the party before Shane notices our absence with his newly acquired skills of observation and deduction." The sarcasm is as heavy as a fully iron heart. "I gotta take this call."

His eyes flicker to the door of the control room just down the hallway. "Apparently you guys are breaking up."

"Who the hell told you that?" I ask, and he shrugs nonchalantly. Doesn't matter to him. Clearly. "Don't believe everything you hear," I say and head to the studio door, maybe walking out on him with a bit of a rebellious flair. He doesn't stick around, and he doesn't tell me to stop as his steps go the other way, towards the lounge.

The noise of the party disappears behind the walls and doors of the studio, and I flick the light on in the control room. A lone microphone stands on the other side of the glass, the darkness swallowing up all the other equipment in the live room. I sit on Bob's chair by the mixing table and lift the receiver of the phone that has a light flashing red. "Keltie, hey."

"Hey." Her tone is official, lacking its usual warmth and friendliness. I feel relieved and sad and lonely and happy all at once. She's done a number on me. "You didn't answer at home, so I decided to try the studio."

"Yeah, we're all here celebrating. The album's done."

"It is? Wow."

"Yeah, we've named it Wolf's Teeth. I've named it, that is."

"Sounds violent."

"It is."

"Well, congratulations."

I hear female voices at the other end and figure that she's calling from the dance studio. That's where I've been calling, mostly, bombarding the secretary Penny with messages for Keltie. She hasn't made herself known in over a week, despite my best efforts.

"You know I've been trying to call you."

"I know."

Oh. Well. I guess she's not returning my calls because that's what I did to her. Payback. Smart. Or just cruel punishment.

"So how've you been?" I ask, absently pushing buttons on the mixing board.

"Not good, Ryan." She sighs, sounding pained, and I echo it with every fibre of my being. I'm not doing so well either. No, I'm not doing well at all. "Maybe we should get together and talk."

"Okay. Sure." That sounds good. I'll give her my sad puppy eyes, and she'll crumble, and then at least one thing in my life will be the way it should be. And now that the album is done, I'll spend more time with her, I swear that I will. I'll take her to those movies she wants to see, accompany her to those Broadway shows we've never gone to, I'll be there more, because she's been away for a week and it's forced me spend too much time by myself. I'm not very good company. "Did you get the flowers?"

"Yes, I got the flowers. Thank you."

"Sunflowers. Your favourite."

There's a long pause on the line where I wonder if she's still there. When she speaks again, the calm tone from before is gone. "They're not my favourite."

"Oh, come on. They are. Remember when we went to that Italian place in San Diego? Every table had a sunflower, but you wanted them all, so I made our waitress steal the other table's flowers. You were wearing that hat of yours that matched." The memory is a pleasant one, making me smile. We have plenty of good memories, Keltie and I.

"Ryan, I've never been to San Diego!" she exclaims angrily, but she has, I know she has, we were there, it – Oh. Oh _shit_. "Oh god, you're confusing me with Jac, aren't you?"

"No!"

"A hat with a sunflower?"

"Keltie, baby –"

She hangs up on me. I take the receiver from my ear and stare at it in horror, and instantly a wave of rage washes over me. "Fuck!" I swear and throw the receiver against the studio glass, but it just makes a loud thud and drops onto the buttons. A 'toot, toot' echoes from it until it's all I hear. Jac has blonde hair, Keltie has blonde hair, I've been to restaurants with both, it was a damn easy mistake to make. Fuck. Fuck! I try, I really fucking try, but what do I get for my efforts? Nothing. Nothing but shit thrown at me. "Motherfucking piece of shit," I swear, and maybe those gossiping friends of hers are right. Maybe I am the worst boyfriend of the goddamn decade.

I put the receiver down, pick it up again and call the dance studio, the number memorised by now.

No one picks up.

I was planning to go before I even knew that Brendon's promotion company was involved in the string of seven sold out shows at Madison Square Garden. I felt obliged, really, having hung out in the same circles as Bonzo in London back in 1975. I didn't expect Brendon to have anything to do with this tour: his promotion company handles unknown cases at small venues. Well, Led Zeppelin is big enough for smaller companies to have been hired as extra help.

The backstage area is massive, the band is on stage, and the likelihood of seeing Brendon anywhere is limited. Good. Because I think he was right, ironically enough: space. I need that right now. I need it because he is confusing the hell out of me, and I can't be around him when I feel like this. He wants to make up. No, he wants to forget and pretend, and I am expected to do the same.

Right now, I might be better off without him fucking up my mind.

Gabe is hyped, telling me to introduce him to the band. I only know Bonzo, once met Robert, once shook hands with Jimmy, and have never even talked to John Paul. I've prepared myself for a night of heavy drinking because that's what Bonzo likes to do, and I appreciate him for it.

"Vicky says we'll play here," Gabe yells in between songs, and I watch from the sidelines into the arena. This place was Pete's dream: twenty thousand people. This is what he wanted for The Followers. We would have gotten here. We would have.

The crowd is larger than any Followers crowd ever was. I remember shaking and trembling and falling apart at the sight of crowds half the size. I see the mass of people, fading into black, and even if the lights were on, the people at the very back would be even less than tiny specks of colour. I don't feel put off by them. I don't feel like I need to prove anything anymore. I'm not saying that fans screaming my name no longer affects me, it still does, but I'm no longer terrified of them figuring me out. They try, they really do, but so far only one person ever has, and so the ratio tends to be on my side.

Gabe cheers enthusiastically when Robert screams into the microphone, shirt open, jeans low on his waist, crazy curls past his shoulders. He ends up on the stage floor, still screaming the same note, and I smell the sweat from the side of the stage. Followers memories come rushing back to me, but they don't haunt me, just provide a contrast with what I now want: as much intensity without the theatrics.

When the show is over, a whole crowd is waiting for the band beside the stage. Bonzo is quick to spot me, greeting me warmly, and Gabe puts on his charming grin and has Bonzo eating out of his hand within five minutes. "We're getting drunk tonight, lads," Bonzo informs us with a broad grin. "We'll drink 'til we die."

"Sounds like a plan to me!" Gabe says, and as Bonzo disappears to get showered and changed, Gabe and I mingle in the dressing room, groupies finding us quickly. Their manager Grant comes over and instantly tells me that whoever is managing me is shit and that he can do better than that clueless man. When I inform him that my manager is, in fact, a woman, he's appalled and launches into a speech of women's role as baby machines and housewives, saying that the little girl playing manager is going to ruin my career and should stay in the kitchen baking waffles for me and then sucking my cock in the bedroom every night. Vicky would have punched Grant in fifty different ways by now.

"Ryan, at least let me take you out for lunch," Grant beckons. "Champagne? Where is – God, can we get some champagne?" he calls out loudly, snapping his fingers. "Anyone?"

It's right then when I've lowered my guard that Brendon appears, a champagne bottle in hand, glasses in the other. "Of course, Grant. Here you go."

"Cheers, Brendon! Can always count on you," Grant says, offering me a glass. Brendon just smiles professionally. Led Zeppelin are here for a week, this is their third night, and Brendon seems to have made an impression with his dressing room organisational skills. He looks tired, though. Exhausted.

"Hey, Ryan. Gabe." His eyes linger on me. I wish I hadn't had anything to drink because my judgement isn't very trustworthy when I'm sober, let alone with alcohol in my blood.

"Bren, how's it going?" Gabe asks, already pleasantly drunk.

"You know each other? Blimey, New York's small," Grant laughs, now lifting his champagne glass and drinking it greedily. We just shrug instead of playing the game of who knows who how.

"What have you got planned for tonight?" he asks conversationally.

"Going out to get drunk, high and laid," Gabe sums up ungracefully, but yeah, that seems to be on the agenda. I might be single for all I know. Keltie has not returned a single one of my further calls. She did pick up yesterday, accidentally, maybe thought it'd be her mother, and we only ended up fighting and screaming at each other over the phone, me because I'm angry and scared, her because she's angry and hurt. I called her high maintenance and needy, I think, I don't know, I was just telling her to stop being a bitch already, and I made her cry, too, her last words before hanging up being, 'All I've ever tried to do was to be the kind of girlfriend you need'.

She was right. That's why she's always kept me in a loose grip. Not because she didn't want to hold me tighter but because she knew that I didn't want her to. She's been waiting for me to say that now I want her to.

Brendon says, "You guys have fun, then. We'll be finishing off here after you've headed out to clubs." Someone calls his name, and he gives us an apologetic smile. He brushes against me as he goes, his hand briefly touching my stomach, and my insides do a somersault. I practically shiver, the feel of his touch washing from my toes to the crown of my head, and I take in a shuddery breath and focus on looking like nothing happened at all.

He could slip away tonight. He told me he could, and I knew that coming here, but I told myself that I wouldn't see him. Pretending that I didn't even hope to see him. And I'm not sure if his offer still stands because everything is so unfinished with us. But no. No, I'm not vanishing into the night with him tonight, not until we can agree on where we stand.

He will come around. He will see things my way. I just need to exhaust him, that's all. I've done it before.

"Take my business card, at least," Grant then says, and I accept it out of courtesy, slipping it into my jacket pocket. It won't go in, at first, the way blocked, and I pull out a piece of paper as Grant and Gabe talk about New York clubs.

I unfold the torn off piece of paper, expecting to find my own messy handwriting and some half-finished lyric, but I'm not the scribe behind the note. I read the short text and then look up in surprise, trying to find Brendon somewhere in the dressing room, but he's nowhere to be seen. His brush against me was even more intentional than I thought.

"Ryan, you coming?" Gabe asks, signalling that we are now moving along. I quickly fold the note and pocket it, nodding hurriedly. Yeah. Coming. Sure.

But I see the text when I close my eyes, simple, painful and all too alluring: _I'll be waiting at Chelsea Hotel. I miss your skin._

I won't go. No. I won't.

The bigger picture of the lyrics finally comes into focus half past three in the morning. I knew that they all linked together somehow. I find a pen and a notepad, look at the notebook scribbles, and it flows out of me suddenly, unexpectedly, and if at any point I fumble, I only need to look over to the hotel bed where Brendon is asleep. Red sheets are in a ball at the bottom of the bed, and he's got his back to me, half lying on his stomach. His skin looks golden in the glow coming from the lamp by my chair and from the light of the city coming in through the window. I can hear him breathing. Evenly. Softly. Like music.

His spine curves, his body narrowing down from his shoulders to his waist, then moving outwards at his hip, like a wave running along the side of his sinuous form. His ass is pale but still slightly pink, the impact of my body against his having left marks.

I shouldn't have come here.

I sip on my Scotch, trying to get his taste out of my mouth. Not because it's unpleasant but because it fills me with contentment and purpose and that one thing he doesn't want to know. The one thing he doesn't need me to feel.

He was waiting. Like he said he'd be. Shower fresh, smelling of his musky cologne, and I was his the second I stepped into the room. He said, "Let's just forget about it," somewhere between the kissing and the removal of clothes, but we didn't rush it. We took it slow and hard. And I never replied, didn't even try to because I felt so lost.

Left Bonzo and Gabe before I was even two drinks in. Made up some excuse. They didn't really pay attention.

My eyes drop back onto the hotel notepad, the Chelsea Hotel logo in the top right corner, and I flip onto a new page, a new stanza spewing out of me, and the rhythm of it is in my head. I can hear the notes. It won't go away. This song.

He was sinful to watch. Beneath me. Mouth open, the filthiest, most erotic moans escaping his swollen lips, all hot and masculine and "Ryan, god, Ryan," and I was waiting for that accidental slip of another name that never came. His brows knitted together, blown pupils staring at me through half-lidded eyes, cheeks flushed, pleasure flashing on his face. His hand dropped down between us, his fingers touching the point of connection, where I pushed into him. His fingers splayed there, my cock between his middle and index finger, like he had to locate where all the pleasure was coming from.

He shifts in his sleep. He moves onto his back. I don't know what he's dreaming of, but his cock is half-hard, resting against his lower stomach. He reaches out to touch the other half of the bed. My half. Shane's half. His hand goes over the sheets, but he finds nothing. I expect him to wake up. For the absence to set off an alarm through his subconscious.

It doesn't happen.

Of course it doesn't.

He slips back into deep sleep.

When I climaxed, it wasn't the same. It didn't feel like it meant as much as it did before, and I think I would have felt that way even without the condom. He had bought some. Clearly knew I would end up coming here. He just said that it makes cleaning up easier. Now that we need to be more careful. So I put it on. I was hard, on top of him, of course I put it on if it meant that I got to be inside him. But I didn't get to mark him. Claim him. I felt like a fucking tourist.

The white come that had gathered at the tip of the condom was a foreign sight. With women, it's different, the small emission of sperm is a congratulations for not accidentally coming in her, that you did a job well done. Not this time. Not with him. I want to come inside him, want to touch him there after I'm done, feel my fingers wet from lube and my seed, kiss him, think that that's when he's at his most beautiful. Because he is.

Pulling the condom off felt like an apology.

He fell asleep quickly. Said, "Don't let me fall asleep," snuggling to me, tired, worn out, mouth swollen and red, and I kept kissing him. Trying to find more meaning in it than he was willing to give.

I'll let him sleep.

He's at peace. He's tired. He's working himself to death.

I'll let him sleep.

I flip onto a new page. Tension curls up in my stomach, tension and loss and longing. How can he be asleep in my bed, still making me feel like I haven't seen him in years?

His chest rises and falls. I watch him, mesmerised. This might be the last time I ever see him like this. This might be the last time he and I ever come to this room.

The second the thought enters my mind, a paralysing fear erupts in me, and I finish my Scotch, fingers trembling. These days cannot last. I know it. I sense it. Like a dog knowing that it's about to die, with that same conviction it suddenly occurs to me that these stolen nights will wither. Maybe it never could last. Not when he's drawing boundaries to my dreams.

I start breathing faster. I look at the notes. The letters are blurred. I close my eyes, wipe my cheeks, and try to get the page into focus. But nothing will come of it, nothing will come of this.

I put the notepad on the side table and get up. I try to move quietly. I don't want to wake him up. No one else in this world might let him sleep, but I will. I will always let him.

His jacket has been thrown onto the couch in the main room. I sit down slowly, doing everything like a second takes five, and I find his wallet in one of the pockets. Ten dollars cash. Drycleaners receipt. Bank card, ID, nothing of interest. I look into one of the small pockets, the calloused pads of my fingers feeling the rough corners of folded paper. I pull it out. Unfold the paper. A picture.

I rest my elbows against my knees, leaning forward, the picture in my hands. Shane. Nothing else. Not even a good picture of Shane, or Shane with something interesting in the background. Just Shane. Looking kind of stupid and out of focus. I flip it around. Brendon's handwriting greets me again, and it looks like I'm not the only one writing confessions on whatever writable material I can find: 'First day in our new home. Best day of my life – 17th of April 1975'.

The sounds of his breathing aren't audible to the other room. I've done so many foolish things in my life, but this one beats all the rest of them. Been such an idiot. Been so fucking stupid.

I leave his wallet in his jacket pocket the way it was, like nothing has ever been touched. I find the rest of my clothes, dress silently, tie my shoe laces. He's asleep in our bed, and I lean down to kiss him on the lips. He stirs slightly, warm air puffing against my dry lips, but I soothe him before he can wake up, brushing his soft hair. He falls back into sleep. Restful sleep. The world where everything is easy.

I would like to think that I walk out of the room gracefully, that I don't stagger and I don't fight for breath. I clutch onto the notepad, mind spinning, the entire world spinning, and I feel so gullible and so sick, and the elevator takes forever to get me to the ground floor. I wipe my cheeks with my sleeves.

Two blocks down, I spot a payphone. I find a few coins in my pockets. The hotel receptionist puts the call through after some desperate convincing. It rings and it rings and it rings, and finally Bob groggily answers, "Hello?"

"Bob. It's Ryan."

"Ryan…? It's – It's four in the morning, it's –"

"I need you to come to the studio. Right now. I need you to – Bob, there's this song, I need to record it, you need to come down. Bob, please. Please listen. I need you to help me out because I can't get it out of my head, and these words are pouring out, and god, it's so ugly, all of it, all the things I thought were beautiful, they're so fucking ugly. I see it whenever I close my eyes. I'm so fucking lost, Bob. I've got this one more song. Just this one last song, and then I swear that I'm done. I swear. But if I don't get it out, it'll kill me. It's killing me."

"I'll meet you outside in half an hour."

"Thank you."

The line goes dead.

When I find her, it's morning. My throat feels sore from alcohol, cigarettes and singing, and my knuckles ache from the hard wood of her door, but I knock and I knock. I feel like my legs won't carry me much further, like I've used every ounce of my energy to get me here.

She opens the door, fully dressed, shoes on, like she is on her way out. She sees me and freezes, her eyes widening. "Ryan. My god, are you –" And then she opens up her arms and pulls me in, and nothing makes sense, nothing, but I focus on her arms around me, her words, "Ryan, baby, it's okay, whatever it is, it's okay –"

I tremble against her, and she pulls me into her apartment, door closing, haven, sanctuary, healing. She shushes me, petting my hair softly, and I hide my face in the crook of her neck, the skin soon feeling wet the way my cheeks feel. "You love me," I whisper, clutching onto her. "You love me, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Ryan, of _course_ I do."

I try to breathe, try not to think of the sunlight creeping across the hotel room, stirring him from his slumber. Panicking. Hurrying to Brooklyn to be with him.

I clutch onto the back of Keltie's shirt, pressing her against me as hard as I can. "I'm so sorry. Just don't leave me. Please, don't ever leave me."

And then my legs give in, and she can't support my weight. We fall to our knees, but she keeps holding me.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 8: Perfection

Imperfection is the route to lasting longer.

It's the flaws that attract our attention. Absolute perfection is boring: there's nothing to examine, nothing to discover. This is true for perfect beauty or the perfect government or the perfect anything – we need the flaws. They make us stronger, keep us alive.

This, of course, is assuming that the imperfections aren't grave enough to cause everything we've ever known to blow up in our hands.

Ripping the flesh. Melting the skin.

Look down and see the white bone shining through torn muscle.

Ask yourself: what have I done?

Keltie's silhouette is visible through the shower curtain, her hands in her hair. The razor's blade swipes across my cheek, my eyes focused on her rather than on the shaving. She starts humming, her hips swaying to whatever she's singing, and I begin to smile. I flinch from a sudden sting. "Fuck," I whisper, quickly checking the damage. My thumb is glistening red.

Keltie draws the curtain aside and steps out of the shower. "You okay?" she asks, wrapping a towel around herself.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's not bad."

She walks over and takes a gentle hold of my chin, but it's a minor cut that will stop bleeding shortly. I look at her soft features as her brows knit together with worry. "Your fault," I say.

"How so?"

"Distracting me." I give her a suggestive look as my eyes dip down on her towel-covered body, and she laughs, giving my shoulder a push. Her eyes sparkle, her joy contagious, and my stomach reels and my heart expands: she's one of the most beautiful girls I've ever had the undeserved pleasure of stealing away from the nice guys. "I like it when you're happy."

"I like being happy," she shrugs easily. "I also like pancake breakfasts. In bed." She eyefucks me with the perfect amount of playfulness and naughtiness, and my cock responds in my boxers, definitely intrigued by the proposition. And for the first time in months, I wish I didn't need to walk out on her.

"I think it'll be more along the lines of pancakes stuffed quickly into my mouth as I dress," I tell her sadly. "But I'll come back as soon as I can. And then we can do whatever we want. Whatever you want."

"I want a pony," she says with a blank expression, but she bursts out laughing when I gently poke her in the ribs. She swats my hands away before I get the chance to tickle her, holding her falling towel pressed to her chest, and I get a nice glimpse of her pale ass when she walks out of the steamy bathroom.

"Nice view!" I call after her, and she flips me off as I laugh and turn back to the mirror to finish shaving.

I look at my reflection: the spot of blood on my chin, the circles under my eyes, the smile stretched on my lips. Every laugh covering up the crater inside me. Convincing enough?

I should be so lucky.

By the time I finish shaving, she's got toast ready. It's not pancakes but, well, she says I have no eggs, milk or flour, and I don't even know why she expected me to have a fridge with actual food in it. It's still nice, sitting in the kitchen with her, eating toast and drinking coffee, her in a pair of red panties and one of my undershirts, her shaved leg brushing against mine under the table, and she makes me laugh with all the stories about her fellow dancers that she didn't get the chance to tell me when we were fighting.

"I'll stock up your fridge," she says, "and make pancakes tonight. We'll have breakfast at midnight. We'll be rebels, Ryan." She sounds awed by the prospect and comically widens her eyes.

"We'll break down society with our midnight breakfasts."

"We will. We'll become pancake pirates."

"We will rule the world."

She laughs, white teeth, perfect nails, brown eyes, smooth blonde hair, soft lips, and she makes it so easy, this life, and I feel like a damn champion whenever I manage to make her laugh, and I say, "Move in with me."

She stops laughing. Her smile fades. "What?"

I put down the piece of toast, crumbles all over the round kitchen table, wiping my mouth and swallowing the last bit. "Well, I – I mean." What do I mean? "You like my place. Don't you? And it's big enough, and I like having you here, it feels more like a home with you in it, and maybe – Maybe we could. I mean, if you don't want to move in with a man you're not married or engaged to, I get that, but come on, it's New York and it's 1977, and no one's that old fashioned around here, no one will frown upon it. I think we're ready. Or I mean – I'm ready." I know I've started babbling somewhere along the way, nervously because I am nervous, because we've just managed to pull ourselves from the brink of a break up, because I almost messed this all up and lost her, and I've lost myself, and now these words are coming out.

"I don't... I don't know what to say," she whispers.

"Say yes. I mean. Yes would be nice."

Something flickers in my peripheral vision, but when I turn my eyes to the dining room doorway, there's nothing there. More like a ghost or an echo: two bodies. A beer bottle placed on the counter, and his fast, uneven breathing and wide eyes, and 'I'm not going to kiss you', right there. A million years ago. A thousand stolen kisses later, here we are.

This is not about him. This is about me. About Keltie. About what we need as a couple, as a team – me and her against the world.

"I need to think about this," she says but she's slowly breaking into an astonished smile, and that's all the answer I need. She needs time to think of an eloquent way to say 'fuck yes'.

"Okay. Alright." I finish the coffee quickly, seeing the clock on the wall – Vicky will be picking me up in the limo any minute now. "But just imagine this." I get up and clear my throat dramatically. "Here." I point at the window sill. "Here we'll, uh, we'll put some flowers. And over here we'll... Fuck me, I don't know, we'll get a tiny statue or some shit, like of a ballerina, you'd like that, and you can redecorate if you want, I won't mind."

"Are you sure you want this?" she asks, staring at me intently. She's smiling, radiating almost, and yes. It's a good move.

"I want you here."

I hold her gaze, seeing the unconditional love in her eyes, and long lost faith awakens inside me. Of something better. Of having that one person.

Before she gets the chance to reply, a sharp, determined knock echoes from the other side of the apartment. "That'll be Vicky," I groan like a kid. Don't want to go. No, Mom, I don't want to go. "Fuck," I swear, realising I haven't even gotten dressed yet.

Keltie seems to have realised the same, her eyes flashing over my form from the silver chain around my neck to the orange-green striped boxers I'm wearing, and the bruise on my chest was left by her, when she was starting to come, helpless, high-pitched moans and sharp nails and Ryan, oh Ryan, and just biting down somewhere.

Brendon does the same thing.

I feel nauseous.

"I'll find you some clothes," she says, kicking into motion while I hurry to greet Vicky, annoyed by her interruption when Keltie and I were in the middle of something important.

"My god," my manager says when I open the door for her. "You have a press conference in half an hour!" She lets herself in, eyes flashing dangerously, but Keltie and I slept in, and then we made love, but I won't tell Vicky any of that.

"Don't panic," I tell her as Keltie appears from my bedroom, a pile of clothes in her arms. Vicky stops in her tracks, her eyes following Keltie heading to the living room and dropping the clothes on the couch. She digs in, throwing dirty socks on the floor.

"It's my fault Ryan's running late," Keltie says, pulling out a white undershirt and tossing it to me. I catch it easily and pull it on.

"So it seems."

Vicky says nothing else. She probably thought Keltie and I were done for, just like everyone else thought. Knowing Vicky, she was trying to contain her joy that now she could mother me without Keltie's interference. But they all underestimate us – even I did. There's something genuine here. Love. There's love here.

Keltie looks over dress shirts, letting out displeased sounds when she finds a stain, making a face when the shirt clearly stinks of cigarettes, but she finds a clean shirt, a jacket and pants to match. She's got an eye for these things, like Jac did – but I'm not telling her that. No. No more accidental Jac comparisons. She's a million times more significant than Jac ever was.

I get dressed as my girls watch the ensemble getting put together, and Vicky goes through the pile to find a tie to match the blue corduroy suit. Vicky snakes the tie around my neck, fixes the collar and knots the tie, and Keltie – still in nothing but panties and a shirt of mine – watches, but that familiar flicker of jealousy isn't there. I see it written all over Vicky's face as she tugs my tie – mine – but Keltie smiles at me lovingly, and I find myself smiling back. This time, we'll be perfect.

"You could come," I tell her.

"Nah, that's alright. I'll clean up in here," she says, motioning at the mess and my clothes. "Right now, it looks like a bachelor lives here."

"Ryan, we're running late," Vicky says, heading out of the living room already.

"What will it look like when I come back?"

Keltie shrugs nonchalantly. "Maybe like we both live here."

I break into a smile, and the crater decreases in size. It's still the size of Texas, aching and throbbing and making it unbearable to breathe, but now it feels easier to handle. Easier to ignore.

It's only when we're in the back of the limo that Vicky asks, "Is she moving in with you?"

"Yeah." Yeah, she is.

Vicky huffs, crosses one leg over the other. "I thought you were fucking Brendon."

We get to the hotel in time, and The Whiskeys enjoy the complimentary snacks in the side room as we hear the members of the press taking seats in the conference room behind the wall. Vicky's snapping at Gabe for no reason, telling him what to say and what not to say to the blood hungry journalists, and I feel calm, I feel at peace.

Jon says, "This album will be the best music you've ever released. I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about it."

I drink the bland coffee from the white, boring mug and smirk. "You telling me that I'm an egocentric asshole is your definition of a hard time?"

"Hey, I hadn't heard the song yet," he says in his defence, but I get it. I went behind his back, changed the tracklist, added a concluding number to the album that he had never even heard of. Jon's second in command. It's his album, too. I get it. And it's not that I wanted the song on the album, it was Bob's doing – that night, when we met up at the studio to do one last song, Bob said that only over his dead body would he let that song end up as a B-side somewhere. A nine-minute catharsis, a mix of acoustic guitar, electric guitar, piano and vocals. "It's the best song you've ever written, man. I'm glad it's on the album, even though you didn't consult me on it. But it's the apogee. It makes it all work, ties it all together." He smiles to himself slightly. "I doubted you for a second somewhere there. Really didn't have to."

"I don't know if – if I want to sing it live."

I sound like a stupid little schoolboy when I utter the words quietly. Ashamed of my own heartbreak.

Jon doesn't say anything for a minute or two, long enough for me to think that he's forgotten the subject. Then he says, "Well, okay. If you think it's too personal."

"It's not based on anything," I say feebly. Jon knows. Probably. Bob asked me what the song was called: 708, I said, my mind flying back to the hotel. Just 708. Could be anything. Random numbers.

"Time to shine!" Vicky then informs us, and I become aware of the excited buzz that's echoing from the Roosevelt Room, the journalists clearly waiting. One of the security men leads us out, the band first, then Vicky, and I linger around for two beats like she told me to, and only then do I follow them out into the conference room. Someone whistles, the hubbub quiets down, and I self-consciously tug my left sleeve as I head to the middle of the long table, the guys already seated. Microphones stand in a row, and a glass of water has been placed in front of me. Off to the side, Shane's crew is filming. I know Shane is somewhere there, and I know that Brendon is somewhere there, too. I was escorted straight to the back room, and I haven't seen either of them. Now I focus my eyes on the room of journalists instead of my lover or his boyfriend.

Or my former lover, really. Probably. I haven't had the strength to get that confirmed yet.

"Hey," I say into the microphone, and some of the tension seems to break. Two dozen hands lift right up towards heaven.

The Followers press conferences were easier because Joe wanted to answer every question and Spencer would often step in for me too. Now it's different: Ryan Ross & The Whiskeys. The album is coming out on the 31st of May, 1977. Six weeks to go and counting. It's not a band with supposed democracy. No, it's about me this time, and nine out of ten questions are for me. Patrick gets asked if it's true he worked in a book shop before getting discovered by me, Jon gets asked about how he and I came together, and Gabe gets asked how his name is spelled and if he actually has American citizenship. Vicky steps in when we get asked about tour plans, announcing that we will hit the major cities of North America in June, and in July we'll be off to Europe.

Most of the questions are about The Followers. Where have I been? ("Right here, man.") What happened? Comments on the bus crash? How has the music changed? Where have I been? What about the crash? How does my fame affect The Whiskeys? What kind of pressure do I feel? What life advice do I have? ("Don't let some musician who doesn't know the first thing about your life tell you how you should live it.") Where have I been?

I answer sparingly, refusing to reply to a handful of them. That sickening burn from The Followers days, however, is gone. These situations used to be a lot more daunting. They felt like charades, people dressed up as clowns prancing around bellowing the most ludicrous lies about the world and the meaning of life and music. This time I actually believe in the music and the people who've made it.

"How would you all describe the album?" someone asks, notepad and pen ready. I look out into the room as the guys take turns – "A lazy autumn breeze washing over a deserted beach," Gabe says – and involuntarily I look towards the camera and one of Shane's puppets behind it. Shane is standing by the wall, leaning against it, but he's not following the overly long press conference. He's talking to Brendon. My stomach drops. "A hurricane," Patrick says. I left Brendon deep asleep in our room five nights ago. We were fighting and then we fucked again, but nothing got resolved, and we're not fixed, him and I. I think it's over. Probably. I think so. But the thought alone is too much to bear, and I can't breathe and I can't see, so I don't think about it.

He called the other day, though. Keltie picked up. I wasn't home. Keltie said that Brendon had only been asking after a camera of Shane's, and I never called him back. Brendon seemed surprised to have Keltie pick up, she said, but not in a suspicious way – she said it just to make a point of how many people had thought that our relationship was over. Guilt trip me a little.

Brendon thought it was over, just like the rest of them.

Now he knows better, and now he's here. And he probably still wants to go back in time when nothing mattered except the thrill of forbidden touches, but I've told him that I want more. He knows that I want more.

Maybe it really was the last time I'll ever be inside him.

"I'd describe the album as," Jon says pensively, "a journey. But it's got real warmth to it, a pulse."

Brendon and Shane are talking, lost in the conversation, and I know the tilt of Brendon's hips and the curve of his mouth and the way he laughs just so, and Shane knows it too, staring at Brendon lovingly, and Shane reaches out to quickly and innocently brush a few hairs behind Brendon's ear, fingers lingering on his neck. Brendon's hand finds its way to Shane's hip, caressing.

Right here. In public.

All eyes are on me, no one is looking their way, but they're two fags in public, doing faggot-like things, and that's stupid. That could get them killed if they did it in the wrong alleyway dark at night. The touches are the kind you do accidentally, if – if you're so in love, so lost in the other person, that you just can't help it.

"Ryan?" someone asks, their voice having an echo like they're speaking to me from behind a thick, silky veil. "How would you describe it?"

I see myself standing up, going over to them, starting a fight then and there and possibly punching Shane, and then they'd all know, all of them – my band, Shane, these people with their cameras and words – and I'd wrap my arm around Brendon's waist, keep him by my side, flip them off, steal a car even if I try not to drive if I can avoid it, but with Brendon on the passenger seat I'd stay on the road, I would easily stay on it, and then I'd just drive, the destination unknown and insignificant. To me. Would it be insignificant to him?

But I do none of it.

"I guess the album is..." I say, trying to find the words. The sound of my voice seems to cut through Brendon's daytime fantasy of Shane because he starts and looks towards us, his hand dropping from Shane's hip, but I make sure to focus on my microphone before he sees me looking.

When I close my eyes, I see the sunrise greeting us, shining through the dirty windshield of the car we should be in, and he changes radio stations, sleepy and happy and smiling, and I reach over to card my fingers through his hair, the other firmly on the steering wheel.

"I guess I'd describe the album as a collection of the things I've seen and done these past few years. The thoughts I've had, the stories I've heard."

"So it's autobiographical?" someone pipes out excitedly. "Your Followers lyrics are famously abstract observations on the human condition."

I chuckle and lean closer to the microphone. "Don't we all suffer from the human condition?"

They take it as a yes, and I swallow hard, the crater inside me expanding once again.

What are Brendon and I doing? What are we doing?

"Thank you for the questions, but we're out of time," Vicky announces. "Wolf's Teeth on tape and vinyl available nationwide on the 31st of May. Thank you!" She flashes a stunning smile at the journalists. She's happy and proud.

The security men come over and hurry me out of the room when the vultures stand up and try to shout more questions after me. I'm escorted back to our waiting room, and the guys follow me, and Vicky starts organising a structured evacuation of the band plus me in order to avoid the fans and the press that will undoubtedly be swarming outside.

I sit on the couch and wait for her to give me orders. My muscles are tensed up, my fingers nervously tapping my knee as I gaze into space, seeing the two of them standing there, by themselves, looking so casual and intimate, and he and I could never have that because we hide in the shadows. That's where we thrive. That's where we belong.

"Ryan, your limo will be here in fifteen. Stuck in traffic," Vicky tells me, sounding highly displeased. Voices echo outside the door, and I recognise Shane's happy babbling, and then I pick out Brendon's voice, and I don't – I don't think I can do this. Don't think I have it in me.

"I'll make my own way home." She looks scandalised. "Vicky, I know how to dodge a few fans, take the staff entrance out. I'll grab a cab in the next street corner."

"A few fans? Hundreds have gathered out there by now, and don't think they're not keeping an eye on the back exits! The limo will be just a few more –"

The door opens, one of Shane's crew guys comes in with a camera on his shoulder. I jump up, look around as if to gather my belongings only to recall that it's all in my pockets. "Look, I gotta go. I'll call you."

The rest of my band looks confused by my sudden exit, but I hang my head and pass Shane in the open doorway. "Hey Ry –"

"Hi," I say, cutting him off, and I don't look at Brendon but still get a whiff of his aftershave as I pass him, and it's enough to make my skin crawl. I head down the corridor, figuring that eventually there has to be a door leading out or a dead end or someplace where Brendon and Shane are not co-existing, but he follows me. I instinctively know it before I even hear the footsteps, and doesn't he think that our lies are wearing thin? That it's getting too obvious right now, our shared absences? What did he say? That he's going out for a smoke when he can just as well smoke inside? That he forgot his wallet, his keys, his dignity?

"Ryan."

I come to an unwilling stop, seeing a hotel cleaner entering a room four doors down, calling out, "Huskeepin!" in a broken accent.

When I turn to face him, Brendon's got that soft smile on his lips, that one that he gives me as a hello, intimate and claiming like a lover's touch. But our eyes meet, and he stops pretending. Stops trying to be sweet. His lips thin into a line, and worry – that ever persistent worry – is pushing through. "You alright?"

I laugh. "No. Not really." Don't know what else he expects me to say. Clearly, neither does he. He looks uncomfortable standing there, and he was right. Things were easier when I just fucked him on any available surface, no regrets, no second-guessing, no hesitance. "I asked Keltie to move in with me." I can't bring myself to look at him.

"…You're marrying her?" His voice sounds oddly faint.

"No. God. Come on, it's the twentieth century. I can live with her without marrying her." I duck my head and worry on my bottom lip. This isn't about him. Wasn't about him. Wasn't meant to be. "And I think I want to live with her," I eventually conclude. She makes me want to be a better person. She gives me a focal point. She's what I need.

"Well." He clears his throat. One short cough. "What did she say?"

"She said yes."

She did. She's home – in our home – right now, cleaning up the mess that it is, transforming it into something new. And I won't bring Brendon back there anymore, no, and as for Chelsea... Well, we still have our room. It's still there. And he can lure me there anytime, he can get me to undress myself, he can get me inside of him, and he can get inside of me, and it'll kill me every single time, but I'll go, unless –

Unless.

I hold my breath and await his reply.

He scratches his cheek quickly, the initial incomprehension fading. I stare at him intently, trying to read something on his face, some grain of truth. "Okay," he shrugs. Like it's not a matter of any great importance.

"Okay? You're fine with that?"

He smiles sardonically, but the irony is lost on me. "It's not my business."

"But it – it is your business. I want it to be your business."

He says nothing. A stone fucking fortress that no one gets to enter, no one. Behind a door is another door, and I wonder how close to the core Shane is. How close any one of us fools has ever gotten. "I love Keltie but if you –" The words get stuck to my throat, and all the frustration that I've felt, that I poured into a stupid song and has since been building up again, is bubbling over. My pulse has picked up, and the sensible part of me is afraid of what the other half will say. "If you left Shane," I say weakly, a desperate shot in the dark. "If you left him. And if you asked me to leave Keltie, if you said that you wanted for me and you to – Then I would. I would."

"Ryan, now isn't the time to –"

"Don't change the topic, and don't pretend I'm not saying what I am!" I snap angrily because he's paled, he has that look of wanting to escape this situation but he doesn't know how. He'll say, 'Ryan, let's talk about this later', and then we never will, or he'll say, 'Ryan, I just want it to be the way it was', but it never will be. He's looking up and down the hotel corridor worriedly, but it's deserted, and where could we go? Him and I? Where can two fugitives go? "I can't live this lie anymore, be stuck in this – this circle we've created. I want you. I want all of you: your kisses and your smiles and your fucked up thoughts and the messes you make and the lies you tell. I want that fucking look on your face right now, the one of you trying to look for a quick escape, that fucking look that I hate. I want it too. All of it."

"All of it," he repeats with an empty laugh. "Because you think you love me."

I stare. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that – It means that you, and – and me, that – I mean that. Fuck. Fuck, I don't know!" he snaps angrily, rubbing his face with one hand. He lets out a deep sigh, shoulders slumping. "I can't give you all of me. That's the one thing I can't give."

"To me?" I ask, the wounds deepening each second. Why not me? Why? "Or to anyone?"

He looks like he himself doesn't know the answer. "Look, if this is about Shane and me again, then I'm not going to apologise for it. I have nothing to apologise for."

"Don't you?" I challenge him sharply, and he startles. But doesn't he? Can he really stand there and take zero responsibility for the fire that he's started inside me? I think that I love him? I more than think that. It keeps me up at night, my love, ugly and angry and hungry and pining, it's torturing me as we speak because he's right here – right here. And he's telling me that I can't have him. And it hits me then – only then. It's not worry on his face, concern for me or fear of getting discovered. No. Not at all. It's guilt. That's what it is. It's not exactly new; I've felt guilty, too. I've felt guilty because Keltie loves me. He feels guilty because he... doesn't. Because he –

"You know how it is, Ryan," he says, tone full of apologies. "It's a – It's a complicated thing with us. And Shane and I..." he drifts off, like he's struggling to explain it to me. He looks pained. "For a while we were drifting apart, but we've been... spending time together again. As a couple."

"You mean you've been fucking," I say, acid dripping down my throat.

"Amongst other things, yeah, but come on, you can't make that an issue. Think of what we're doing here," he hisses, motioning back and forth. I know they're fucking, and it's not just walking in on Brendon shortly after a round of sex or the condom he's made me wear. It's chemical. Something in the air. Something about the tension between the two of them that wasn't there before, them having rediscovered each other's flesh.

"What are we doing?" I ask challengingly.

"Having an affair." He says it promptly, like he's rehearsed it in front of a mirror. Hi, I'm Brendon Urie, and I'm having an affair. He's categorised it neatly, labelled it so that he doesn't need to analyse it.

"At first, yeah. What have we actually been doing this spring? Think about it. We fuck and we fight and we make up and we make out, and sometimes I feel like I can't even breathe because I miss you too much, and you – you. You tell me that you miss me. You fuck me and tell me not to forget, but even then you don't have the balls to specify what I shouldn't forget: that we're falling in love. That's what. That we're in love. And the second I say it, you run back to Shane and selective fucking memory kicks in, and suddenly he's the love of your fucking life again, and –"

"I never meant things to go this far, I –"

"But they have!" I bark, cutting him off because our volumes have steadily gone up. A door behind me closes, and Brendon folds in on himself, looking panicked and scared. The cleaner knocks onto the next door down. This setting is absurd. Humiliating. Yelling in a hotel corridor and disturbing the staff. I try to regain some composure. "Things have gone this far, and now I want all of you. Nothing less will do."

"But this is all I can give," he repeats through gritted teeth. He's not sorry. No, he never seemed the type.

"But you don't love him."

"Of course I love him."

"No! Not like – like this, in this fucking all consuming –" I say, not even knowing how to describe it. "No. You can't love him like that."

He looks like... like he pities me. Like he's sorry.

"We're in love," I say, the statement lacking all the punch it should have. I swallow hard, feel myself trembling. "Aren't we?"

He doesn't say it. He doesn't say anything – not that he ever would.

"Fuck," I swear quietly, not sure whether to laugh or cry, so I do neither.

"Maybe we should stop," he whispers. Colour has drained off his face, and he looks morose, attending a funeral he started. I knew those words were coming. I knew that much, but they still make me lose my breath. No, god, no, no, no – "I don't think I can do this anymore, Ryan. It's getting out of hand."

From the options of screaming and shouting and breaking down and punching him, I choose recalling history. Sticking to the facts. I've lured him into my bed, made him my own, made a liar and a thief and an impostor out of him. Sometimes, I'm all he thinks about. Sometimes, when Shane fucks him, he thinks of me instead. Because he wouldn't be this ashamed of me if he didn't feel something. He wouldn't feel guilty if I didn't make him question the basic foundations that he's built his life on.

He has to feel something because no one is that strong, no one is that good of an actor – not even him.

"Maybe we really should stop," I agree, as an ultimatum. Go on. Go through with it, then.

"It was fun while it lasted, right?" he asks, voice breaking. His eyes are wide and pleading.

"It was."

"Ryan."

"What?" I yell at him. "What more do you want? You fucking confused little boy!"

"You're leaving me no choice here!"

"Then say it!"

"It's over! Fine! It's fucking over between us! God, are you satisfied?" he spits out, voice wavering, and there it is: heartache. A momentary lapse. We stare at each other unblinkingly. I close the distance in two strides. Our mouths crash together impetuously, and I pull on the short strands of hair at the back of his neck, and god, his scent, his skin, and I kiss him hard, saliva and tongue and dominance, and he kisses back, hands on the sides of my face, crushing and pulling.

"It's over now," I manage to say when we stop for air, before diving in deeper. His pained whine getting lost between our mouths. It's over, it is, it really is –

He pulls back, tearing himself away. Our mouths let out a dirty, wet pop, and the ghost of his kiss lingers on my lips. He's heaving, lower lip shiny. My skin feels electric when he looks at me, and the air is heavy around us, musky somehow. It's over. I'm putting an end to this. I'll go insane if I don't.

"We're done," he says. "I swear to god." He pulls me into a fade-out-and-roll-the-credits kiss that's wet and slow and so full of desperate want that I melt into it, my hands gracelessly twisting in his hair.

"We're done," I agree against his soft lips and kiss him harder. His fingers dig into the small of my back and pull me closer.

But I'm still not the one who gets to take him home.

He's kissing me, but he's choosing Shane. He's choosing Shane and whatever primitive form of love they have.

When I manage to realise that through the haze of want and longing and pathetic yearning, I let him go, the sudden release making him stumble backwards.

He looks at me, eyes wide.

It aches. It all aches. I quickly get out a cigarette and a lighter, trying to suck in smoke before it's even properly lit. Hoping he can't see my hands trembling. Do anything. Anything that detaches me from this. "So it's over."

"I know." But he's not moving.

We hold eye contact, and I won't blink until he does. I won't. This is a vicious cycle, of never being able to keep him in my bed for long enough. The days were always numbered. And so the past is gone now. The past is over.

I turn on my heel and head down the corridor, my eyes locating an emergency exit door. I push it open, needing to get out, far away, now, right away, this instant, and an alarm goes off and breaks the deafening silence, his silence, his never-ending, deafening silence, and as I head down the alleyway, smoking with shaking hands, trying to suck in uneven breaths, mind spinning, nauseating, something inside me screaming, the hotel staff begins to evacuate the building.

The way home is winding and narrow and full of detours to bars. It's not my most graceful entrance, but Keltie will understand. She always does. And we'll sit on the couch and she'll hug me when I tell her that I just don't know anymore, don't know anything at all, and she'll lean in close and whisper, "I wish there was something I could do to make you smile."

Except this time I don't know if there will be anything she could do. Anything anyone could do.

"I'm sorry I'm late!" I yell from the door first thing. "I got lost." So fucking lost. I walk further into my apartment, but almost instantly trip on my feet, clumsily managing to balance myself. One of my jackets is lying in the middle of the floor. Next to it another. And another.

All the coats that were hanging in the coat stand when I left have been removed from the hooks and are now on the floor.

I slowly walk in further, confused but sobering up quickly, my eyes flying to the bedroom door – debris there too, sheets torn off the bed, my clothes discarded in piles, drawers hanging open, their contents emptied on the floor – a robbery, I've been robbed, I've been – And Keltie, where's –

"Keltie?" I call out.

No marks of a forced entrance, my door hasn't been kicked in, is there blood, what if there's blood –

The living room comes into view at the end of the hallway, and amidst the wreckage, the seemingly total destruction of my place, is Keltie, sitting on the couch, resting her elbows against her knees. I stop at the sight of her. The world stops at the sight of her. She looks up at me with red, swollen eyes, mascara streaks, hair in disarray, like it's been pulled on. No. No, I haven't been robbed.

I know.

"What's going on?" I ask feebly. I know, I know, oh god –

She wipes her cheeks with the backs of her hands. Her breathing is ragged and irregular. "I only…" She stops, voice fading. She pulls herself together. Barely. "I only wanted to empty your pockets. Sort out some laundry." Her voice is rough in a way I've never heard it. Screaming. Crying. How long was I away for? "And I found this note." Her eyes drop onto the coffee table, the only place in the living room that isn't a mess. The offending object, a piece of paper, lies on the table innocently. Next to it a familiar looking key. I stand still, paralysed, so engrossed by the wreck that I can't look away. "Why would – Why would you have a note like this? Chelsea Hotel. Someone waiting for you there. Why would –" I know the second half of the note too well. 'I miss your skin'. So eloquent with words for once. "It didn't make sense to me. I thought that- that it didn't make sense. Any goddamned sense, so maybe it wasn't addressed to you. You had it by accident. That's what it is. Only an accident. But I had to be sure, I wanted to be sure so I..."

Demolished my place. Turned everything inside out. For more evidence. The pictures of Brendon cross my mind, but they're not on the coffee table, so it's safe to assume that the few Polaroids are still hidden behind a framed picture of Keltie and me. A desecration, I know.

"I found this key. It's a hotel key." She's speaking like she's having an out of body experience, stuck in a nightmare she can't wake up from. This isn't her life. This can't be her life. But it is because I made it so. "So I took it. And I went to the Chelsea Hotel."

The gravity of the situation doesn't really hit home with me until then. She went there. She saw everything. Everything.

"Keltie –"

"And your- your clothes! Your clothes are there! Your guitars! Like you live there, like you – Your cigarettes and your books, and toothbrushes and condoms, and –"

"Let me –"

"I don't understand!" she yells, crying, ugly and loud, killing whatever pathetic and shitty excuse I was about to offer her. "Oh god." She takes in calming breaths, and it slowly dawns on me that she's been doing this for hours, sitting right there, waiting, breaking down, picking herself up again. Trying to make it make sense. I don't dare approach her. I don't dare do anything. When she's stopped shivering, she looks up at me murderously. "Who is she?"

"That doesn't matter."

"Who is she?" she asks, but I make no reply. "Vicky? No? Then Greta. It's Greta, isn't it? Or is it someone I've never even met, some adoring fan? Or maybe it's a bunch of women! Maybe you've been doing it all along and I've been so stupid, so –"

"It's only been going on for the past few months. Keltie, it was nothing, it was a mistake, and it's over now, and –"

"A few months?" she asks in disgust. Six months. Roughly. Give or take. I already cut it down to a manageable amount of time for her, but even my lie is enough to repulse her. She stands up, grabbing her jacket, struggling to get it on. She was supposed to move in with me. We were supposed to be amazing. She was supposed to fix me.

"Let me ex –"

"Shut up!" she shouts across the room with a force that's exponential to the small-sized woman that she is. But she's not weak. She's never been weak. I know she's about to break down completely – she clearly has a few times already – but she's a ball of fury that I know I deserve. I know I've done wrong by her, but if she just let me make it up to her somehow, if she – "There is nothing you could say that I'd want to hear! Nothing!"

"Okay. Alright," I murmur, trying to appease her, get some damage control going. She zips up her jacket. I panic. "Don't leave me."

She looks up in disgust and surprise. "What?"

"I've been unfaithful, but this is a wake up call! I'll change! I'll be – be different, someone better. We can get through this!"

"I don't want to get through this! I want you out of my life, I want to –" Her eyes flash with anger and disgust, but most of all with indescribable hurt and pain that I don't even know how to make up to her. "Do you know what it felt like? Standing there, seeing this secret life you've been living with some other woman? And after all the lies and deceit and betrayal, all you've clearly done behind my back, this is your wake up call? This is where you decide you've gone too far?"

"You know what I'm like! I don't – I'm not good with people, I don't really see the big picture! I do stupid shit without thinking! And I – I need you. You make me better." My voice wavers, and I quickly wipe my cheeks. "You're the only person left that loves me for me. You're the... God, Keltie. You're the only person who's ever loved me for me."

She looks indignant. "And what about her? Doesn't she love you?"

I swallow hard. "…No. I don't think so." That's why Brendon feels guilty and sorry. The realisation of it is still only beginning to dawn on me, being too painful for me to fully acknowledge, but that's what it boils down to: Brendon doesn't love me.

Keltie's lips twist into a cruel smile that I've never seen before. It looks out of place and wrong. "Then you're the fool. God, you've killed us for nothing. For nothing!" The burst of anger seems to drain her, and she lifts a hand to her forehead, shoulders shaking as sudden tears rattle her. "I hope you never forgive yourself for this, that you never –"

"I made a mistake," I persist feebly, again, and I will say it again and again and again and again, until she believes me. Because I don't.

"Why did you do this? And with someone who doesn't even love you! When I do! So much that it hurts, that it –" She clutches her chest, sobbing suddenly.

"I know. Baby, I know, I just –" My mind is reeling, and I've spent so much time lying to her, too much time, and she deserves the truth. She will love me if I give her the truth. If she sees me being as open with her as she's always been with me, and yes, god, that'll make her stay. A sacrifice from me, the demolition of a wall. "I made the wrong call, but I finished it off." Adrenalin makes me shiver, but I force myself to have the courage to say it. "I finished it off. With him."

The truth. The ugly truth. The painful truth.

Oh, god.

The rules of physics disappear, the seconds dragging into sickeningly, sickeningly long hours in which Keltie's eyes widen, and she looks at me like I'm a stranger, like she's seeing some disgusting fucking thing – and I know she knows at least one gay male dancer so maybe she'll- she'll understand, but the little colour that her shouting has gathered on her cheeks fades away, and she looks so repulsed and appalled and shocked that I want to tell her that I can't help it – I tried, I did try – that there's just something wrong with me, and I don't know what it is.

"Oh, don't – God, don't," she manages to get out, lifting her hand to her mouth like she's about to vomit if she doesn't stop herself. "No, no, no, no –" She takes hurried steps, almost running towards the door, but I grab her arm. She turns around and slaps me without warning, her open palm hitting my cheek hard, stinging and burning. I let her go, mostly out of surprise. She looks deranged, eyes wild and furious. "Don't you ever touch me!" she screams, flat out screams.

The shame and guilt sting as much as my cheek does, and I don't stop her – couldn't stop her – when she walks out on me, on my mess, out of what could have been our home. I couldn't stop her even as desperation fills me, even as I watch myself lose that one last person.

She walks out with a sense of finality, carrying her broken heart with a lot more grace than I do.

So what do you get in the end? What have you fought for?

The smoke clears and the sun also rises, but hindsight is a not a wonderful thing. It's a useless thing.

I once told Jon that I can't make everybody happy, and it's true. That I chose myself. That I've kept choosing myself.

And a lot of good it's done me.

Torn pictures and open books have been thrown all over the living room, lying on the floor like ripped apart bodies of young men after the Somme, and I, their commander, feel the weight of their deaths on my shoulders. All the little deaths of memories and dreams and her smiles and his kisses.

I made the wrong call somewhere along the way. In my quest for perfection, I took a wrong turn. And now she is gone because she couldn't stay. And now he is gone because I couldn't stay. But my heart, it beats, pushing his ghost into every cell of me, as consuming as it ever has been. And if I could, I'd tell Keltie that I get it now. What it's like to be consumed by useless love.

I'm sorry, you know. I am so fucking sorry.

And the ground is battered, holed by bombs, shards of glass and bones under my feet, and the stench of it, god, the stench of rotting death penetrates me, and it stretches beyond miles, death and loss fading into black.

Don't go seeking perfection because it isn't worth it in the end. Seek imperfection. And when you find it, let it stay that way. Don't go changing it. Don't go changing him.

And what makes me laugh like a maniac and gasp for breath as I lie down to forget on my sheetless bed is that the gems of perfection that I thought I momentarily held in my hands were the very flaws that ensured our destruction. That with every touch, he was stepping away from me.

And I laugh because that is the funniest, most hilarious thing I've ever heard in my life.


	15. Chapter 15

PART THREE

III

Chapter 1: Some Death Rattle at Most

The taxi is silent. Slight, warm rain is rolling down the windows, the wipers lazily travelling across the windshield, and I listen to the sound of my breaths while I can. Enjoy the calm before the storm. The driver says, "Hey! That's you!"

He's pointing through the windshield, up to the heights of Times Square buildings. I lean towards the back window and look up. My face decorates a billboard. "I don't know. Is that me?"

"Yeah, man! You're that –" He snaps his fingers impatiently, forehead wrinkling. "That musician, that..." He leans forwards to peer at the ad again. "Ryan Ross! You're all over, boy!"

My paper face is gigantic and huge and enormous. It's staring down at us from the heavens, from the side of the building, shining on the taxis and cars and pedestrians. Vicky said that if the Lennons could do it, so can we, and she did just that: my face, meet New York.

So much for no longer getting recognised.

"Imagine that! You're in my taxi!" the man goes on to say, sounding pleased and craning his neck around to flash me a gap-toothed smile.

I let my elbow lean against the door panel, my knuckles pressing against my cheek. I unconvincingly smile back. I was enjoying the silence of this ride – the radio not on, him not singing or humming, the only music being the honking and the drumming of late spring rain. Or early summer. It's June tomorrow. Tomorrow, only a day away.

"Yeah, I recognise you now," the driver goes on to say, clearly having decided that our respectful silence is no longer an option. We inch along a few more car lengths, and I watch myself watching myself, a scrawl of 'The debut album from Ryan Ross & The Whiskeys' decorating the bottom of the advertisement, then a picture of the Wolf's Teeth cover next to my blank face. "You've got that song on the radio, a damn catchy tune. What's it called, something red? What's that song?"

"Crimson Gone."

"That one! Getting played all the time! I like your style. Not anything I've heard before. None of that disco crap or those fancy electro effect things, but still modern. Still very 1977, if you get my meaning."

Well, at least we agree on one thing.

"Say." He reaches over to the passenger seat and then tosses a newspaper to the back. "Sign that for me, will you? To Milton. Write, oh. Oh! Write, 'To Milton – thanks for the smooth ride. Ryan Ross.'" He laughs. "Oh, write that! Ahaha!"

So I do.

"You touring soon?" he asks, suddenly a fountain of questions. I nod absently. "Any New York shows?"

"A few, yeah. Sold out already." Based on only one song.

"Aw, that's a shame. I like that song on the radio. You couldn't get me any freebies, could you?"

"Don't think so."

"A real shame. I do like that song." He starts humming it. We leave Times Square and my paper face behind. "Listen –"

"Look, man, I've got a headache, alright? Got a headache." I look out of the window and feel his eyes on me through the rear-view mirror.

He huffs. "I see how it is." And, quieter, "Famous cunts."

Silence lands on us once more. I fight off the headache that changed from imaginary to real the second I said it, and I close my eyes and pretend that I'm somewhere else. I'm tired. That's all. And it's not my problem if they idolise me or follow me around – I need to worry about myself. Not them. Let them do whatever they want. Keep my head above the water and not drown. Make Bolin and Buckley wait a bit longer before I join their decomposing ranks.

"Well, this is a party," Milton says as the car slows down. Masses of people are packed on both sides of the club entrance, a mix of fans and journalists. The taxi comes to a stop. "Get out of my cab."

I inhale. Close my eyes. I hear nothing. Nothing.

"Sure thing, Milton. Thanks for the smooth ride." I pay him and get out of the taxi with my head held low. That's why I refused Vicky's limo – if they saw a limousine coming, they'd be swarming around it before it was even half a block down. This way I've taken six steps out of the taxi and towards the door before they realise who's arrived. Someone gasps. A splash of my shoe in a puddle, my breath and my lungs and my heart and my head, and then – A chorus of voices and yells and screams explode. Silence is a temporary art.

They come in at all sides with their cameras raised and records lifted up to the air, waving them, yelling for me to sign the Followers records and Crimson Gone singles. Anything goes.

The bouncers are thankfully on alert and push their way to my sides to help me keep walking, and I lift a hand as cameras flash and people ask me to look their way. A whole lot of Ryan! Ryan! Ryan! for nothing.

"Welcome, sir," the other bouncer booms as he holds the club door open, and I snake inside quickly. The door closes behind me, creating a wall of muffled yelling behind me and a wall of thumping music ahead of me, echoing from the bottom of the stairs I'm gazing down at. I follow the steps leading down, and the press and fans and their soul-eating cameras get left behind. When I push open the doors at the bottom, I find myself on a landing, peering down at a dance floor with purple lights flashing from the ceiling above us. Someone spots me. The entire dance floor stops as they all spot me. They start jumping and cheering and waving.

"Ryan!" An arm around my shoulders, squeezing. Gabe. Grinning like mad. He makes a broad arch with his free hand, motioning at the club in a 'this is our kingdom' kind of way. "Welcome to the album release party. You're three hours late, you fucker. Vicky's furious, man. It's hilarious." He laughs. Pats my shoulder. We descend into the chaos. They're playing our album.

After Vicky finds me and gives me a mouthful about not answering my phone (unplugged it) and not opening the door for the chauffer she sent (ignored the banging), she calms down because now the main attraction is present at his own "fucking album release party, Jesus Christ. Well, at least you look good."

I made an effort. Going through my wardrobe and drinking heavily. I didn't want to come because this war tactic of avoidance was working so well for me. So damn well.

The club has a seated section in one corner, and that's where we end up receiving guests like royalty sitting on their thrones, letting people come and sit down with us for a while: dozens of friends, semi-friends and acquaintances, Rebecca, Nick, Michael, Mark, Cameron, Mel... How you been, yeah it's been a while since I was down at that bar, I've been around – other bars, you know, other parties, other scenes. Busy, busy, busy. Everyone here has been invited specifically – there are no awkward fans around, but fellow artists. Supporters of the arts. Critics too, Rolling Stone, Creem and The New York Times and then some, but I leave them to the criticising. I won't suck up to anyone.

The guests are nodding to the music. Taking it in. Some smiling. Some laughing in what looks like disbelief. I don't care what the world thinks. Sure I don't. It's only my first move away from The Followers legacy, my first independent musical statement.

And, well. Almost no awkward fans are present.

Ian Crawford sits down on the couch next to me with a whoosh of messy, brown hair. "Ryan! Man! Good to see you!"

"Yeah," I say, looking over his shoulder and scanning the room. I wonder if he remembers that the last time he and I shared a drink, he ended up snorting god knows what in the bar bathroom and that Brendon and I then dragged him to my apartment where he passed out on the couch, but not before he half-begged me to fuck him. Not sure if Brendon ever told Ian the exact details of what he did. "Who are you with?" I ask although I know.

"I'll never tell," he grins drunkenly, tapping his nose before he laughs jubilantly. "God, I've been listening to the album, and I wanted to say, man, that Wolf's Teeth, this album, dude –"

"Yeah, thanks," I say with an artificial smile, and he barely even notices that I'm not paying attention as he rambles on with high praise.

I wanted to make him wait. Not the other guests, just him. So that when he arrived, boyfriend in tow, my name would be on everyone's lips. Let him wonder where I am and who with.

"– the best movie I've ever seen!" Ian enthuses. "The special effects! Man! Have you seen it yet?"

"What?"

"It's called Star Wars. If you – if you haven't seen it yet, we could go together sometime. I wouldn't mind seeing it again. It just came out. I have never seen anything like it!" He smiles at me enthusiastically. Then his smile falters, and he adds, "They're in space and stuff." He blushes profusely. I stare at him in utter confusion. He goes redder. "Um. I-I'll go get myself a drink." He nearly stumbles trying to stand up too fast, and I watch him flee, shoulders slumped and head hung low. That kid must embarrass himself daily.

Cassie is sitting beside Jon, hand on his knee, talking to Greta and promptly ignoring me. She's not speaking to me anymore, as a matter of fact. If she can avoid it. That'll make touring fun: a passive-aggressive wench glaring at me at all times. Jon's said that he's not taking sides. Gabe said that he's taking mine.

So I cheated on my ex-girlfriend a little and everyone in New York knows it. I can't go blaming Keltie. She didn't get on a soapbox to bellow it out – she's got more class than that. Her friends, however, don't have such class.

The reputation of a womaniser does wonders for your love life. The women get even bolder. And so do the gay kids with crushes, it seems. And was anyone surprised by what I did? No. Even Keltie always knew. Suspected it. She knew me better than anyone, and deep in her bones she also knew that I wouldn't be faithful. She loved me, anyway.

Keltie left the significant part out when she sobbed against her friends' shoulders. About who lured me away from our quasi-matrimonial bed. She hasn't started any angry rumours. She could have. But she hasn't. Probably because it hurts her too much.

It wasn't foolish to love her.

"Hey, sit down!" Patrick pipes out. The handful of couches we're occupying form a square, and a rectangular glass table sits in the middle, covered in full ashtrays, coke traces and empty bottles. Across the table, Brendon Boyd Urie from Anonymous Mormon Town, Utah sits down next to my drummer with a drink in his hand – Jack and Coke by the looks of it. If I had to guess. He likes Jack Daniel's. I like Jack Daniel's on his tongue.

What a sickening memory to have. Erase, erase. Delete. Destroy. Splotch out with correction fluid.

What lies I tell myself.

I rub my face with one hand, nodding as Jon laughs about his attempts to pack for the imminent tour, but it's a forced laugh. Jon knows who has joined our group, and he probably wishes that he didn't know what Brendon and I spent most of this spring doing. Jon also knows that it's over. A drunken half-mention from me in a jazz bar one night after Keltie had gone. Wanted Jon to know but also not to know. Hoping that he'd sympathise without reading into it too much, without realising how shattered I am. Brendon's not one of those larger than life people who'll turn you inside out and then spit you out, leaving you dumbfounded and heartbroken. He has none of that persona. He's just a boy, but he got me good.

"Are you okay?" Jon asks, and I rub my temples, nodding.

"Damn headache."

"You don't have to stay, you know. People will get it if you want to get some rest." He looks at me with concern. "When was the last time you slept for more than three hours, anyway?"

Good question. Who knows? A lifetime ago? "I don't know, man. The run up to the release has been insane. Last week, I think. Been all interviews and parties lately."

His hand lands on my shoulder, and he squeezes it fraternally. "You need to go home and sleep."

Leave my own album release party? After days of dreading it, knowing he'd be here as all of the film crew was invited for a good night out? Then procrastinating, putting on clothes that I know he likes, and now that he's here, after weeks of having been able to avoid him, leave?

Yeah. Yeah, I need to get the fuck out of here.

"I will. I'll leave now."

I stand up, not caring if it looks suspicious that I get up to leave when Brendon sits down. I'll go home and sleep, that sounds like a plan, but oh, Eric's here, that's nice, haven't seen him in a while, so I sit back down, and an hour later I'm still at the club, now by the bar talking to Eric, good old Eric, and he's saying that he ought to hate me because I stole Shane from him, was a good employee, apparently, didn't have the wits to ask for a raise at any point whereas these new kids, well god, and I get drunker by the minute as the girls that are lingering around laugh at Eric's jokes.

Shane came over to say hi. He looked one tenth as tired as I feel, and we haven't even started the tour yet. Shane's exhausted but excited. I can't stand the sight of him.

One of the skirts that Eric's taken a liking to tags along as we reclaim our seats, just in time to see Jon taking Cassie for a few spins on the floor, and everyone's patting my shoulder and saying hi and telling me that they'll come and see us play and that the new album's amazing, and I feel – artificially loved. And important. None of these people would be here if it weren't for me. I'm the centre of their attention. And yet, I can't bring myself to enjoy it.

"Hey."

I look up from my drink. Eric's no longer sitting next to me. He and the girl are gone. Brendon's looking towards the dance floor, and oh, there they are. So is Vicky, dancing with Jon as Patrick tries out his moves with Cassie. Everyone having a good time.

What do you say to your former lover? Hi? Hey there? Thanks for nothing, you heartless bastard? Or maybe 'what do you think of the album?' Fuck the critics – what did he think?

I go for none of the above and relish the fact that he's come over to talk to me. It counts as a victory. I still ask, "Do you really want to be seen talking to me?" I focus my eyes on my friends and acquaintances. Not him. Not trying to figure out if I can feel his body heat against my side, or if my skin there has just gotten aware all of a sudden from his close proximity. I could lean my knee to the left a little. Make our legs touch.

"More suspicious that we never talk anymore. Shane thought we were becoming good friends at one point, when he saw us talking a lot."

"Oh, we were the best of friends. Could hardly leave the bed." I take a sip of my vodka, can feel the irritation coming off of him. "What? Was that offensive?"

"You don't have to be so fucking crude about it," he says, sounding perhaps a little hurt.

"I'm just not embellishing the truth." A sharp pain radiates from the left side of my chest, but I ignore it. The first thing I do is pick a fight with him. Of course that's what I do. Help him add things to the list of why he didn't choose me. "So did you want something?"

I make the mistake of looking at him. His soft brown eyes, the way they sparkle when he smiles. The curve of his nose, and the way it presses to my spine when he kisses my back, going down, further. The fullness of his lips, pink and soft and tasting like home.

He's smoking, and he brings the cigarette to his mouth, and I envy it, the fucking cigarette. His lips purse around it, his cheeks hollow. I try not to think of him sucking my cock. I fail. I keep telling myself that the distance will do me good. Will help me forget.

So much for that theory.

"I tried to get out of coming on tour. I just wanted you to know that." His left knee keeps bouncing. Nervous. On edge. "But Shane said that I can't quit the project out of the blue, that I'll fuck up his work if I do. He's pretty stressed. He needs me there, you know? So I have no choice, but I did try. That's all I wanted to say."

That's nice. That's barely nice. A good blow to my ego first off. Thanks.

"You and me on tour… Well. Imagine that." I take another slug of the vodka. It's got mixer in it, some Coke to add colour to keep up appearances. I gather the residue off my lower lip with my tongue.

He was looking. He clears his throat. Was he looking? "Doubt we'll even see much of each other," he states. He's not saying anything about the music. Not asking how I've been. They're not playing the album anymore – instead Jon Anderson's vocals are blazing through. The English always did it well, but I did it better.

"So what did you make of the album?" I ask, submitting that much.

He shrugs. "Sounded good. I mean it is good, but you know that, anyway."

"Right." That's all I'll get out of him, and I know it. He clearly thought nothing of what I sang. Some death rattle at most. "So are you travelling with the commoners or in the VIP class?" I ask, referring to the sharp separation between the band and everyone else – all the roadies, merch people, techs and majority of the film crew travel by bus. The important people just go from airplane to limo to hotel to limo to venue to stage to limo to hotel to limo to plane. And I know that Shane, as the head of the film crew, will be travelling with the band. And Shane's loyal, long-term boyfriend?

"I'm travelling with you guys," Brendon admits. And yeah. I figured as much. We can't exactly ignore each other in a confined space, can we?

"Well. We might even make it to Europe this time," I say slowly. "Get you off this goddamn continent. Always did wonder what you'd be like in France. Or Germany. Or Spain. If it would make you fuck different somehow." I finish my drink and place the glass on the floor between us. I glance up at him, and he's staring at me with hurt on his face. "I guess I'll ask Shane for updates," I say with a sweet smile, standing up rather gracefully, the alcohol intake considered. "Oh, and by the way," I straighten the suit jacket that he likes, "haven't seen you and lover boy exchange a single word to each other tonight. How are things in monogamy heaven?"

His eyes flash dangerously. "You know, we could be civil to one another. You could be civil."

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Christ, just –"

"'Piss off', yeah, yeah, I know. Watch me do a trick. You watching? See. I'm going… I'm going… I'm gone."

I walk into the crowd without looking back, offering my arm to the first girl rushing towards me, and she laughs brightly and accepts it, enthralled, and, well.

You have to do these things with style.

None of the lights are on in my apartment. I walk through the rooms like a ghost, haunting the poor thing. Pouring myself a drink.

I left the girl with Gabe. Never had any intention to do more than piss off Brendon with her help. It's all about appearances. I don't miss him. Let him not think for one conceited second that I miss him. Hurt, well, I'll let him think that I'm hurt because it's true. But it was a mutual decision, wasn't it? He said no. And I said no. Almost at the same time. Practically simultaneously.

No.

No.

As simple as that.

I linger by the living room window, staring down into the street where a few lost souls are prowling. I think one of them might be one of those crazy friars from down the street. They have their God. They have someone to go home to.

I was meant to, too. This apartment was meant to finally become a home. I wanted Keltie here. So many things were meant to be different. She was supposed to put me back together piece by piece. Nurture me back to health. But instead I am left to my own devices and, well. I squeeze my fist. Feel the painkillers locked inside. Well, well. That's just a fucking stupid move on everyone's part, isn't it?

I packed for the first few shows yesterday and I found a shirt of Keltie's. It still smelled like her. The memories of her are fading. I don't want to forget, but her face is getting blurred.

I'm sorry.

It's too easy to pretend that I'm turning love into hate. Too damn easy. And Brendon didn't fume in jealousy when I walked off with some girl. I'm just wasting my time trying to hurt him like an attention sick child.

He talked to me. So fucking glad he talked to me.

So pathetic.

Stay away, stay away, stay –

I knock the pills down with the vodka.

"There you are," a soft male voice comes from behind me, and I look over my shoulder. Oh. I forgot.

"You're still here," I observe. The shadows fall on the guy's naked form, and he stands alluringly by the couch, a seductive smile on his lips. I gaze around the room, make sure things are still in place. "Haven't stolen anything, I hope."

He scoffs. "Honey, I don't give a shit about this crap." He's got a lisp. He's that type: an effeminate fag. He reminded me of Keltie when I first saw him last night, they somehow move in that same, feminine way. Like dancers. "I've been sleeping since you, uh. Wore me out. But I'm ready for more if you are."

I assess the situation. Think of the way he groans. He's not so feminine then. Full on male, musky and masculine. Reminding me of someone else instead. In my bed. In my big goddamn bed that I have all to myself.

I set the drink on the windowsill and unzip my fly. "Get on your knees, then."

He walks over, the light hitting his face – forgotten his name, but he's beautiful in that utterly insignificant way – and he smiles. "My pleasure, sir." He drops down onto his knees. My hands settle in his short, brown hair, almost the exact colour I wanted.

"You'll do," I say, voice hoarse.

He'll do. For tonight.

Roll an imaginary wedding band around my finger. Glad we made it this far, baby. Sure's been worth it. Sure it has.

The private jet isn't ours ours, but it is ours for now. It seats ten passengers: five on each side of the aisle. The pilot and co-pilot shook our hands at the airport and said how excited they were to have been hired, and they then tried to engage me in conversation about the Longthorn model we'll be flying on this tour, but Vicky was quick to lead them to the side and let them in on the 'Don't disturb Mr. Ross' rule.

Now we're about to start landing in Baltimore. It's been a short flight of less than two hours. A car will be waiting for us. Take us straight to the arena. The gear will be all set up for us – the crew got there this morning. We did a few crew practices last week. The kids should know the drill, and we should have the songs figured out for live performances. Now tour passes hang around our necks like collars on dogs, 'All Access' and 'Diamonds and Pearls tour 1977' written on them. I hide mine beneath my shirt, but Vicky says I hardly need one. People will know who I am, anyway.

It's a whole new different type of tour this time. No more playing poker with the roadies. I'll consider myself a humanitarian if I even learn the roadies' names or set foot on their bus.

The album went straight to number two. Vicky said that we'll be number one next week.

Greta is sitting in front of me, hanging across the aisle as she incessantly talks to her boyfriend, Butcher, who's already informed us all seven times that he has never flown before, and he seems extremely excited about now getting to experience it. I've always liked Butcher, the little I've seen of him. A hippie dreamer like Greta is.

In front of the flower power couple are Jon and Cassie. Why Cassie has to tag along when we'll be back in New York in a few nights anyway is beyond me, but I guess that Jon just wants her here. Our first ever live show is tonight. It's a big event for all of us. Gabe and Vicky are bickering behind me, Patrick sits across the aisle from me, buzzing with nerves, the poor fool, and nearest to the cockpit are Brendon and Shane. Brendon, from what I can see, is reading a book in silence. He's the only one not trying to talk over everyone else, or, well – Brendon and I are the only ones keeping quiet.

Everyone else is excited.

"I'm so glad there's another couple on tour with us," Greta says, clutching Butcher's hand and staring at Cassie. "It's good to see others' love, don't you think? It strengthens your own."

Behind me, Gabe says, "No, Victoria, South America is not just one big jungle. We do have cities, you know. And juntas. Lots of juntas."

"We're mostly couples!" Cassie laughs good-naturedly, and Greta glances towards the back where Vicky and Gabe are arguing.

"Cassie, honey, they're not..." Greta says with a sympathetic smile that it's truly sad if that's what Cassie defines as love.

"No, no, I mean Brendon and Shane!" Cassie elaborates, causing Shane to pause his conversation with Jon and look enquiringly at Cassie. Brendon's picked out his name too, looking over his shoulder questioningly.

Greta's expression brightens up. I thought she knew. Well, she isn't the most observant person, truth be told. She's too preoccupied with her fairytale thoughts to take much notice of anything else. "That's lovely!" she chirps, and I focus on looking out of the window, at the ground below us that's gradually coming closer as we lose altitude. Cities beyond cities beyond cities. Let everyone be told, then. That he's not mine. "You're homosexuals! I had no idea! Congratulations!"

I muffle an involuntary burst of laughter. Only Greta would walk around congratulating people on their sexual orientations. I wonder what I'd get if I told her. A huge party, perhaps? A present of some kind? A song titled 'Ryan Likes Boys Too and I Think It's Swell'?

The silence tells me that the fag couple are trying to grasp Greta's well wishes, but she just goes on with, "How long have you been together?"

"Um." A hesitant voice. Shane is scratching the side of his neck. "Two years and... four months now?" He looks to Brendon for validation.

"Something like that," Brendon agrees, nodding.

Greta's completely enthralled and misses their obvious discomfort. I'm equally enthralled. Monogamy heaven, take two. "How did you meet? Butcher here found me." She nods towards her boyfriend lovingly, and Butcher flashes a proud smile at everyone, a 'damn right I did!'

Brendon sees me looking. "Well, uh." He drops his gaze. "I was working in a bar in the Castro District in San Francisco, and Shane came in one night, and we hit it off, and well. Here we are."

"That's not how it happened," Shane laughs.

"Roughly it did."

"Not really."

"Vaguely," Brendon says impatiently.

"I chased you for weeks. Weeks. I was hanging around the bar like a lovesick puppy while you just gave me the brush off." Greta giggles appreciatively, and Brendon looks anything but pleased. "William had to give me pointers after a grand speech that I could piss off if my intentions weren't noble."

"So what happened?" Butcher now asks eagerly.

Shane looks over, having been staring at Brendon in slight annoyance. We're all looking their way, and he seems surprised, like he's not sure what to say.

"He wore me down, didn't he?" Brendon jokes, flashing a smile at us and reaching out to clutch Shane's hand. "And it's been strong and steady since."

Greta awws, being the romantic she is. Shane's shoulders are tense, but he smiles at Brendon. The lovesick fool. Brendon pulls his hand back when the others are focused on Butcher's tale of how he met Greta, and Brendon goes back to his book. Shane picks up a conversation with Jon.

Fuck them and their relationship problems and their desire to work on those problems. If Brendon chose that over me, then clearly what I had to offer was a lousy deal in his eyes. I was spoiled goods. And now I have to sit here, watching them trying to act like the dream couple they once were.

Like I never had a claim on him at all. Like I didn't matter, and if I did, he's busy pretending that I didn't, and that's – well that's just fine. If it's that easy for him to pretend that it was really nothing.

Greta starts singing as we lose altitude, and Gabe joins in happily, and when we land in Baltimore, most of the guys are singing, "You started this fire down in my soul, now can't you see it burning out of control," doing disco dance moves with their hands and all of it, cackling hysterically as they take the piss out of the music we're opposing.

The plane bounces and slows down, and the guys cheer and laugh and clap. "Oh, there are limos waiting for us!" Greta says giddily, peering out of her window. "Some press too! I feel so important!"

Brendon reads his book, and I focus on being angry or bitter or anything other than sad. Because that's the worst part. When I'm just sad.

I settle on being bitter. It feels like the best option, all things considered, and thanks to it, our first show goes well. I think. If I cared enough, I'd even be pleased.

I've never been the type to be excited about walking on stage, but actually doing it is not at all as repulsive as I recall it as having been. I just don't give a flying fuck what they think anymore. The crowd's wild – not the reaction I was expecting after Greta's supporting set. Her music is mellow, likely to make you cry, not riot. But it's a different kind of wild from The Followers days when underwear would get thrown at us and there'd be hysterical sobbing and deafening screaming. Now we get enthusiastic applause and cheering. It sounds like appreciation. That's nice. Thanks. Three fucking years too late, but that's sweet.

I'm the last to get on stage. No horror, no stage fright. I see Patrick behind the drum kit, looking damn excited, Gabe's on my left grinning wolfishly, and Jon on my right looks like he is back to where he belongs.

And thousands of people are taking us in with their beady eyes. The arena cheers enthusiastically: the people on the floor, standing in masses and masses, then at the sides where there's seating, rising up row after row, and curving to the back of the arena where the seats meet somewhere in the darkness. Not too small or too big – eleven, twelve thousand people. The Followers pulled crowds like this before we died.

"I'm Ryan Ross, and these are The Whiskeys. This is our first ever show. Thanks for coming out," I say into the microphone simply. None of Joe's obnoxious 'How you doing, Baltimore?'s. They cheer even more.

It almost feels like cheating, starting from the top, but at least I got something out of The Followers. At least I got something from that fucking mess, and it doesn't feel weird to be back on stage but without Spencer behind me. That when I look back, I see Patrick with his glasses and a hat on, not Spencer with his bandanna and vest and friendly smile. Don't miss those days. At all.

"A one, a two, a one two three four," Jon says, and we kick into our first song. The music fills the arena, and it's stupid, I think. All these people paying to hear us live.

From the sidelines, Vicky watches intently. Shane's got his whole film crew there too, the lenses zooming in and out and focusing on different people. They've been filming us all night – first show jitters. They wanted to interview me too, but I dodged the bullet and let Patrick do it instead. I know I owe the documentary crew at least one in depth interview, but they'll have to catch me first. Oh, the suckers will have to try.

Greta and Butcher are looking on, swaying, Greta singing along. She'll come on soon to do backup vocals the way she does on the album. And Cassie's smiling, well that's fucking rare, and we do Rampant, Royal Blood and Piccadilly in a flash. We've got thirteen songs on the album, and I'll play twelve of them, so we've made extended versions of the shorter songs to make sure no one feels cheated by the set not lasting long enough.

Greta soon comes on, and we do two of the three songs she sings on. The crowd seems besotted with her, and I told you, didn't I – I said that I'll make a star out of you. Her album's coming out at the end of summer. She'll shine so brightly.

I ignore the fact that Brendon is watching us play when Greta and I sing Bruises. I busy myself detaching the lyrics from their context as much as I can until it's just something I sing, something about the taste of cigarettes in a guilt-ridden kiss. And when I switch guitars after the song, the audience cheering after having sung along to every word and the album's only been out for a damn week, I look to the side again and Brendon is smoking, now standing slightly away from the other on-lookers. He seems unnerved. I don't care.

After we're done with Paradox, turning it from a four-minute song to a seven-minute epic during which Jon does an amazing guitar solo that's mostly improvised, Brendon seems to have taken off. I try not to think about it for the rest of the show, but he's nowhere to be seen when we walk off for the encore break. Vicky is beaming that we're playing fucking well, and Patrick is shivering from adrenalin. Brendon's nowhere to be seen at all. Coward. Stupid coward. God, I hope he's alright.

We do Five Close Calls and then, of course, Crimson Gone because it's on the radio, and it's the song that gets the biggest reaction. Someone yells, "Play Alienation!" right before we do the last song, and I count it as a victory that we're about to wrap it up when I hear someone demand a Followers song for the first time. Do us a favour and shoot yourself in the head, Followers loving asshole, you've got the wrong fucking band.

The asshole fan included, then, it goes well. It goes really well. The audience loved it. I'm not smiling, but I could smile were I so inclined. I've got a good band. At least something's going as it should.

We walk straight off stage, getting led into long corridors by venue coordinators, down a flight of stairs, left, down the corridor, right, through double doors, up a flight of stairs, hurried steps, and soon we vanish into the limo that is waiting for us. No sticking around, no packing up the gear. Not for the band. Not for Ryan Ross and The Whiskeys.

The people that have managed to exit the arena are singing Crimson amongst themselves as we slide past in the car, protected by the tinted windows. Jon laughs brightly, an arm around Cassie's shoulders. She isn't objecting to his sweaty embrace. "That was magical, right?" Jon asks enthusiastically. The band and Cassie agree, the four of them buzzing the same kind of energy.

My family's happy tonight. Well, good that someone is. I can feel that much through this muddled cloud of ugly, ugly love that I don't want anymore. Not tonight and tomorrow.

Our luggage is waiting for us at the hotel, and we kick back in the lavish suite that Gabe and Patrick share. We start drinking. It doesn't take too long for our numbers to multiply by three or four as whoever we know in Baltimore that gets our okay finds their way to the hotel. We don't see the road crew or any of the lowly documentary crew – they're all on the bus to Philly with the gear. Good riddance. See you tomorrow. Only those who travel on the plane are staying the night, and Vicky, Shane and Brendon appear eventually, everything having been sorted out at the venue.

Brendon takes one look at me and quickly disappears into the crowded room with that same nervous edge he had when I saw him during the show. I don't go investigate – he wouldn't tell me, anyway. I simply focus on getting drunk off my face because that's what this occasion requires. I stop in the bathroom to pop codeine pills down my throat. It's midnight now, and I know what day it is, I know, I know, and I don't want to deal with it. Not tonight. You're asking too much of me.

Shane comes to congratulate me on a great opening night. I know that he and Brendon are sharing a hotel room. Of course they are, only makes sense, but I'm not sure if Vicky's gotten them one or two beds. I could've told her to make sure they have their own beds, but then she'd say some kind of uncomfortable truth that I wouldn't want to deal with. Maybe she got them two. Vicky's smart. She wouldn't want to start rumours of us harbouring fags in our ranks.

But the number of beds doesn't matter because they can push the beds together or use just one of them. Love finds a way. It always does.

Brendon's talking to Cassie and Jon, and they seem to be enjoying each other's company, Brendon talking animatedly. Too animatedly, a slight giveaway that he's holding something back. They can't see it. I can. He still laughs, and it occurs to me how rarely I see that anymore. I swear he used to laugh more.

Cry, cry, baby.

I need a bottle of something strong.

Patrick's off his face – an introduction to tour life – and someone says that the hotel bar on the second floor has a piano, so a bunch of us grab our bottles and pill and powder bags and head down to investigate. The good kids – Jon, Greta, Cassie et cetera – get left behind. Even Vicky's drunk as she tags along. Wow. She really must have thought the show went well.

We get an assistant manager to open the door for us, and they're giggling like fools, the dozen or so of us, and I don't know anyone's names but it hardly matters. Someone starts playing Queen songs on the piano, and I laugh under my breath when the guy playing starts bellowing out, "You suck my blood like a leech," angry and bitter, just the way the song should be sung, just the way all songs should be sung. I'm not nearly as wasted as I'd like.

"You know what they say about this guy," the guy sharing my table says confidentially. "Freddie Mercury. You know what they say."

"No. What do they say?"

"That he's a fag. Yeah. I know. And people still listen to them. Can you believe that?"

"No, man. Really can't. Sickening shit, right?"

"Revolting."

"Yeah. Yeah. Fuck off, you cunt," I hiss, get up and wander off in search of better company. I think like Catullus: I will sodomise you and stuff your gob with my cock. And I don't know if it's the drugs or – No, can't be – The booze, maybe? The combination? Lack of sleep? Whatever it is, the room suddenly spins in a weird way, and I come to a stop. Everything blacks out momentarily. I try to shake it off.

"Ryan. You okay, man?" someone says, hands on my shoulders.

"Piss off," I mutter, trying to push them off.

"Is he –"

"No, I don't think – Can someone get his manager?"

"Vicky."

"Yeah, Vicky! Anybody seen –"

"I've got this. Just leave it to me." A body presses to my side, an arm securing itself around my waist to support me. "Come on, Ry. Come on now."

"I can fucking walk," I object, but let myself be led away anyway.

Suddenly the room's no longer full of the dark wooden furniture of the bar, and the banging of the piano sounds distant. The walls are white instead. The tiles too. A kitchen. A glass of water is pressed into my hand, and I clutch a counter with my other as I gulp down the water, the sudden dizzy spell evaporating, the cool water soothing my throat. Reality comes whooshing back in an unpleasant way, everything becoming more focused. I don't know what happened.

Brendon's staring at me, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks kind of pissed off.

"What?" I prompt. I finish the glass, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose. Try to get air in.

"Nothing. I get it: first night of tour. You deserve to have a good time." He couldn't sound more sarcastic if he tried. Yeah, what is he? My keeper?

"Look, I've hardly taken anything," I tell him angrily before he can even start. Let's rewind to him snorting god knows what during The Followers days.

"It doesn't seem like it."

"Even if I snorted all the fucking coke in this hotel, I don't need you to look after me!" I snarl, my guts throbbing with nausea. Not today. I can't deal with this today, wondering if it means something, that he worries or gets pissed off.

He left me. He left me, and she left me, and nobody wanted me in the end. And today. Today.

I rub my face and try to fight off the memories crashing on me like a tidal wave.

"It's the first night of tour," he says again. "And look at what a mess you are already. I just thought you had figured out moderation by now."

"I've hardly taken anything," I repeat, and it's true. But they add up over days and days, all the chemicals and never sleeping anymore. I've never had dizzy spells before. In front of everyone too. Fuck.

I take him in, standing in the hotel bar's kitchen with me. Think of him smoking nervously during our show. I might eye-fuck him – accidentally, of course – because he becomes agitated, a faint blush emerging on his cheeks. I think of him beneath me, staring up at me with blown pupils, his hair a mess and cheeks flushed. Those breathless, vulnerable gasps when I've got him good. I miss you. I miss you, I miss you. God, fuck off.

"I'd just hate to think it's anything to do with me," he says at long last, drawing out every syllable like it's taking a lot of effort to say it.

"What?"

He shrugs slightly and avoids eye contact. "I don't know. I just – Some of the songs on the album... just resonate."

I almost laugh. So is that why he's doing his best to avoid me? Because the songs hit too close to home? He never wanted to know. When I tried to tell him, he made it more than obvious that he didn't want to know anything. Well, he doesn't have the right to resent me for those songs. I can sing whatever I want. Even the truth that he had no interest in.

"You think I'm being self-destructive because of you, and now you feel guilty. Huh. I did wonder why the fuck you'd even care if I passed out at the bar. Should've known it's about your conscience." I scoff and try to fight off the anger.

"Silly of me to assume something like that. You're right. It's just you taking artistic liberties, lyrical exaggeration and –"

"I mean everything that I sing," I cut him off, and an awkward silence lands on us. That's not what he wanted to hear.

"Do you really?" he asks quietly. "Because you say things in those songs you never said to me, not even when we were –"

"Would it have changed anything?"

"No. No, of course not."

"So what difference does it make?" I ask, hanging my head. What makes him think the songs are about him, anyway? The small references only the two of us could ever get? I didn't mean it to be a bunch of whiny letters to him, although that's what he's taken it as. No. No, it's about purifying my soul, just getting my secrets out of my system. Not about him. It's about a public confessional, a recantation of what I thought I had. "It's the first night on tour, and maybe – maybe I'm in a bit of a mess tonight, sure. But I deserve to be. And not because we're on tour or because of the things I sing. We just – God." I pause to take in a breath. "We met. Three years ago today. And it's not something I feel like celebrating or remembering."

It's pathetic. It's sad. I know. Tenth of June, 1974. First day of tour. I remember wanting to smash Pete's face in and renounce music altogether just to avoid having to deal with my band. Now it's the tenth of June, 1977, first night of tour. So much has changed. So little has changed. It's important to remember significant dates. Keltie taught me that too.

I remember that day. He was wearing this... this t-shirt that only came down to his belly button. He was reading Hemingway and doing drugs and drinking too much and sleeping around, and he was stubborn and young and fierce, god, he was so fucking beautiful, and he never took any bullshit from me. Never. The only one who…

He looks confused. What have I got to hide, anyway? Feign indifference when even hearing me sing songs about us makes him too uncomfortable to watch the band perform? He knows how I feel. I'm shoving it in his face on a nightly basis now, and my feelings. My heart and what it contains. All of that is even more obvious when I try to mistreat him.

"I didn't." He pauses and looks… "I didn't think you'd remember."

"What?"

He slowly uncrosses his arms. "Our anniversary." His voice is faint.

I stare. He remembered. He knew. He knows.

The urge to suddenly take a step closer and kiss him is overwhelming. Three years. Three years, and I'm not even allowed to kiss him. Three years, and I know that if I tried to kiss him, he'd shoot me down. He's happy with Shane. So obviously happy. Sure. With the forced smiles and barely talking, and still it's better than what I offered.

He clears his throat. Looks uncomfortable. "Look, I - I gotta head back out. Drink some more water, will you?"

"No. No, we're talking about this!" I say angrily, stepping up to him quickly, which proves to be a mistake. The world just tilts, swinging around its axis, and I need to close my eyes to steady myself. I shake it off, and he's still here, looking concerned but no longer intervening.

"You should sit down," he says.

"No." I study his face, the slight alarm in his eyes. He knew what day it is. He's always known. Been counting the years, maybe the months.

"Ryan, you're drunk."

"I'm not. You just wish I was." He counts the years and helps me when I overdo the recreational poisons. That must be love. In our world, in this little bubble world, that must be enough to call it love. "I know what it means because it means the same to me, it means –"

The door to the kitchen opens. Gabe walks in with a smile, but then stops abruptly when he sees that I'm with Brendon.

"Oh. Sorry for –"

"Gabe, can you see to it that Ryan gets to bed?" Brendon asks, backing away from me like from a ticking time bomb.

"Um –"

"You're not getting away that easily! Can't we just fucking talk about this?" I demand, feeling desperate. If he only stayed. If only. I swear he'd see things my way soon enough. "Goddammit, you don't get to walk out on me on our fucking anniversary!" I hiss angrily, and Brendon reacts instantly, saying, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on. You think Gabe doesn't know?" I laugh. Brendon stares at me in horror. "What? You don't think we've been obvious most of the time?"

Brendon's mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. He looks furious. Scared. Gabe looks like he feels out of place – must be a first.

"Thanks for that, Ryan," Brendon says through gritted teeth. He rushes out with a muttered swearword, the door swinging behind him. I laugh to myself, trying to keep the world upright as all the energy I spent trying to convince Brendon that I was feeling alright has now drained, and the world looks wonky again.

Gabe's arm is around my shoulders, holding me to him firmly. "Estás en problemas, hermano," he tells me, shaking his head and sighing. "Let's get you to bed, man. Come on."

Am I in trouble? Why on earth would I be in trouble? It's just the truth. That's all. And I for one, most certainly for one, think it's about time other people started telling the truth too.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 2: Monochromatic World

Nothing and no one wakes me up.

A pillow lies under my head, another is lying length-wise next to me, like I've pulled it closer in my sleep. I used to sleep alone just fine.

The walls of my bedroom are the same beige colour they've been since the place got refurbished. Keltie chose the colour, made a big fuss over beige and cream and what I preferred. I didn't care.

It's quiet in my room. No pretty brown-eyed girls or boys anywhere.

The peace sometime in the morning, maybe closer to ten, is soothing. Feels like I managed to sleep for a few hours after all. Soon I have to head over to Madison Square Garden for our second New York show, but before that I should check the morning papers, see if they concur with the reviewers for the Baltimore and Philly shows: that I'm still an elusive know-it-all on stage and off it, but for some reason they can't stop watching, and neither can anyone else. Oh, and the music's not bad either.

I shave in the bathroom, accompanied by a leaking tap. Drip. Drip. Drip. My eyes dart to look at the shower curtain reflected in the mirror, but no one's behind it, whistling or humming or filling the gaps with morning kisses. I get dressed, sitting on the edge of my bed to tie the laces of my black platform shoes. My tour suitcase remains packed because we'll be off soon enough, heading to Chicago next, I think.

Find cereal and milk in the kitchen. The milk hasn't gone bad yet. I lean against the counter and munch on the food, fully dressed and with a clean shaven chin. Can hear the crunch of the cereal. Crunch, crunch.

It's hot as hell in New York City. Black clouds are decorating the sky.

I feel restless. I know that the phone will start ringing soon, and if I don't answer, Vicky will be coming down to personally drag me out to do whatever she needs me to be doing. Fulfil other people's expectations of me.

The shows aren't bad. I've got them figured out, even when faced with twenty thousand people.

I scratch my nose. Feel more detached from humanity than I ever have felt.

Got a call from Nevada yesterday, from the hospital. Some infection. A turn for the worse. I don't have the time to wonder why I can't even bring myself to pretend to be affected by his slow way of dying. He'd do it quick if he had any decency.

I don't have the time to feel, period.

My fingers accidentally catch the chain around my neck. Yeah, he's still not talking to me. Is still mad. I tried talking to him in Philadelphia again and again, but it's difficult when someone else is always around and no privacy is to be had. He tagged behind long enough on the walk from the limo to the jet to ask me who else I've told. No one, I said. I swore. No one, no one at all, I lied. I don't think he bought it, just shot a dirty glance at me.

I don't have the time to feel the full impact of his wrath. Sometimes I even forget, for a second or two. But then I see him, and his disgust of me penetrates every cell of my body and makes it harder to breathe.

I remain by the kitchen window, eyeing the bruise coloured clouds that lick the tops of the tallest buildings. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The apartment is vast and empty. A quiet, lonely kingdom all to myself where the only sound is that of me breathing.

Patrick and I get shoved back and forth. The mix of fans and press pushes forward, the venue workers struggling to keep them back. The camera flashes blind me, and I try to cover my eyes and just keep swimming upstream. The pushing feels like an invasion of privacy, of decency. The shouting irritates my ear drums, the commotion bouncing around in my head. Someone grabs my arm, and I have to tear myself free. Lightning erupts from the darkening evening sky, the air pregnant with imminent rain.

We manage to get to the side door, and after a short but brutal struggle, we get inside and the door closes behind us. The security men are panting.

Patrick looks around. "Fuck, I lost my hat."

"Buy a new one," I offer.

Thomas, a guy who works for Madison Square Garden and is responsible for ensuring our pleasurable stay, laughs. He guides us through the canteen and to our dressing room while the security men follow us loyally, like dogs, like Argos, living only for the thought of us. I spot a few of our roadies but don't say hello. I'm too important to have the time, returning from a string of interviews in time for the show. One of Shane's men spots us and hurries to follow us with a camera on his shoulder. Shane's said that following us around will create a good sense of the constant movement and chaos behind the scenes or something along the lines.

When we get to the spacious dressing room, the security men taking position outside the doors, a loud chorus of voices greets us. Everyone's present, including some of Shane's crew, who've thankfully put their cameras away. Pre-show drinks are going around, and it's become a habit for us just to chill out and have a few beers before going on stage. Loud bursts of laughter erupt, the guys amused by whatever they're talking about. Thomas helps himself to a beer as Shane's guy puts the camera away. I find a seat by the dressing table, grabbing a beer bottle and note that Brendon isn't present. Greta's about to start her set any second, and so neither she nor Butcher is to be found.

"That is a myth," Jon says, slouched on the couch lazily. Cassie looks slightly disgusted by whatever they're talking about. Keltie's not in New York this week but out of town somewhere. I'm not sure if it's on purpose, but I'm glad we're missing each other, not having to wonder if she'll come see us out of curiosity or anger.

"It's not, man! I swear, this guy told me it happens," Gabe insists enthusiastically.

"Spontaneous orgasms? That you're walking down the street and just get off?" Jon says sceptically.

"Coming in your pants," Patrick snickers appreciatively, and the guys laugh.

"No, that's not what I said. Not spontaneous or without, uh, stimulation. I only said that apparently some men can come without getting their dicks touched."

"Bullshit. Come on, that is bullshit," Jon deadpans. When Gabe is about to object, Jon says, "Think about it. Have you ever gotten off without getting your dick touched?"

"Well, no but –"

"So there ya go."

"Cassie, help me out! We only know how our own dicks work," Gabe reasons, which is such a lie but he covers up his bisexuality very well. Apart from me, none of our friends know.

Cassie chuckles, even if she clearly thinks that this is an obscene conversation only men would ever have. "I wouldn't know much about other guys' dicks."

"Much?" Jon asks with a raised eyebrow her way, and she rolls her eyes. Oh. Oh, cute. That's what's missing in that picture: clearly they were virgins when they first got together. How darling. The only two suckers in the twentieth century who are pleased riding just one horse.

"We need to ask groupies," Gabe says, dismissing Cassie as a potential witness to these supposed ejaculations he's focusing his energies on.

The door to the dressing room opens, and Brendon wanders in. "Bren! Just the man I wanted to see!" Gabe says, grinning broadly. Gabe's seemed pleased in some weird way that Brendon now knows that I've confided in him about our affair. I might be losing sleep over Brendon's anger, but Gabe certainly isn't. "Can you please verify for these non-believers that men really can get off without getting their dicks touched?"

Brendon stops. "Um..."

"So you're saying," Jon interrupts with a laugh, "that some men can get off by, I don't know, kissing chicks?"

"Not kissing. Broaden your horizons a little there, Jonny. I'm asking Brendon for a reason," Gabe says. Jon's eyebrows lift to his hairline, the way they would with any straight man suddenly asked to fill their head with visuals of gay sex. Brendon looks more than uncomfortable as the guys look at him, waiting for an answer. Gabe is enjoying this. Brendon spots me, but I haven't said a word to Gabe. I would never go into detail.

Brendon's cheeks look red, but it's not just embarrassment – it's anger aimed at me. But I don't want the entire room thinking of him in that situation. Don't want them to sexualise him or picture his far-gone sounds or the way his hips fervently move when he's about to orgasm. That's none of their business.

"That really doesn't happen," Shane now steps in. "That never happens. Does it, Bren?"

"No. No, of course not," Brendon says, but Gabe doesn't look disappointed, more like he is holding back a smirk. A dark desire swirls in me, something that is pleased. So Shane has never. They never have.

"I, uh, forgot something," Brendon now says, motioning back out, eager to leave. He's almost at the door when it gets opened for him, and one of our roadies pops his head in.

"Hey, you guys, Greta wanted you all to come check out her set. She said it's important."

Greta's voice is ringing in the background as the guys exchanges glances of confusion, but no one seems to know anything. It's not like Greta to be secretive.

I'm quick to get up, however, and lead the way. Or, well, follow Brendon, who hurries his steps but I match his pace in the narrow backstage corridor as the roadie leads us through the maze towards the stage. Patrick's a safe distance behind me, pushing his glasses up his nose, blue bags under his eyes from the tour lifestyle, but he's enjoying it. I walk faster, and as we ascend a short flight of stairs, I say, "I haven't told Gabe anything that could be considered intimate."

"Don't talk to me right now," he hisses back, not even looking at me.

"I wouldn't do that to you."

"Wouldn't you?"

"No." We reach the top of the stairs, and I grab his wrist, stalling him. "Listen to me." He unwillingly locks eyes with me. God, he's so angry. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"Funny thing about that," he says, releasing himself from my hold. "There are plenty of things you've done that I never thought you'd do."

Patrick almost walks into my back. Brendon walks off quickly, and I have no choice but to mix with the band as we approach the stage. The lights are blinding at first, but I blink it off until Greta's form comes into view centre stage, a pink dress on her, her hair loose, and her old mahogany guitar pressed to her chest. She's in the middle of a song, faced with the crowds of Madison Square Garden. She might as well be singing to two bored cows in a Midwestern field – that's the air she gives off. No intimidation, no pressure. She's just happy to be singing her songs about love and peace.

Shane joins Brendon near the guitar holder where six of my guitars are hanging, waiting to be used during our show. They talk but I can't hear what. It's brief, whatever it is, Brendon's shoulders drawn tight. Great. Now he thinks that I've told Gabe all the dirty things we've done.

Vicky's smoking with her cigarette holder, looking displeased. Her hair's on a bun and she's wearing a pale yellow Jacqueline Kennedy style jacket, but the denim miniskirt and her messy eyeliner break the illusion. "What's she doing this time?" Vicky asks me, eyeing Greta suspiciously. Vicky's still probably hurt that Greta refused Vicky's recent offer to manage her, maintaining that Butcher manages all of her affairs. Vicky knows Greta's going to be successful and hates her for it.

"I really don't know."

We watch the next two songs, after which I begin to feel tired. I can't stay still for too long these days without feeling like my blood isn't flowing the way it's supposed to, reaching my head and the tips of my fingers. There have been a few incidents within the past week where the sudden dizziness has returned, but they pass quickly enough. I have no idea what's causing it. The codeine, maybe? All drugs have side effects. I've learned that much. But the codeine keeps my left arm working, keeps the pain away. I have to have two working arms. I'm a guitarist, for god's sake. And the drowsiness washing over me could just be tour exhaustion and not drug induced because I hardly sleep these days. A few hours here and there. Couldn't sleep for six hours straight no matter how hard I tried.

Twenty thousand people applaud Greta when she finishes her song, Butcher eagerly whistling from the side of the stage. He keeps snapping pictures of her, the big camera hanging around his neck, the shots for a family album that the two of them will look at when they're old and grey.

It's hard to comprehend a number as huge as twenty thousand. Sometimes I try to imagine putting the thousands of people into a single row, figure out how many miles that'd be. Miles and miles and miles.

"If it's alright with you," Greta says into the microphone, brushing straw coloured hair behind her ear. "I'd like to ask someone very special out on stage with me." Someone from the crowd instantly screams my name. Greta turns to us, beaming. "Butcher, come on out here."

Butcher lowers his camera, surprised. He looks at us, but Jon just shrugs, taking the camera from him. Butcher gingerly walks on stage, nervously glancing at the crowd.

"Now what is she doing?" Vicky groans.

I almost say that I don't know, but then I do. I think of the conversation Greta and I had a few nights back, about Johnny and June. Greta's a modern girl. She feels perfectly at ease with taking the initiative.

That douchebag Lennon once sang that you've got to hide your love away. Right he was, I've come to find. But Greta wouldn't subscribe to that. No, she would think it a crime.

So I guess I'm the only one who isn't surprised when Greta proposes to Butcher on stage. It's the kind of overdramatic gesture of love that she'd find suitable. Vicky laughs beside me at Greta's nerve, that it's not a woman's place to pop the question, but Butcher doesn't seem to care as he accepts gladly and kisses Greta on stage with thousands of witnesses. The audience cheers wildly. Cassie is wiping her eyes.

"Well," Vicky sighs. "Guess we need to whip up an engagement party for those two fools." She glances at me. "You think you'll ever marry, Ryan?"

I think back to the pillow that I clearly had pulled to my chest in my sleep. Something to wrap myself around.

"No... I really don't think I will."

A post-show engagement party is immediately settled on, Vicky making a few calls and settling on Studio 54. She says that she knows it's disco music, but it's also the hottest place in New York right now and that she practically had to sell her left kidney to get us in on such short notice. When Greta comes off stage, beaming with happiness, she informs us that no, no, no, there's a nice jazz club on West 52nd Street that she and Butcher frequent and that they want to go there. Vicky is seething, but it's not her engagement party as Gabe reminds her. Vicky looks like she has to contain herself not to slap Gabe.

We go on in forty minutes, and the roadies are busy setting the stage while the majority of us pours back into the dressing room. I, however, go in search of one of my Gibsons, knowing that Greta adores it, and it seems like a fitting engagement present. I can buy more guitars easily enough.

I'm kneeling behind a set of piled up monitors, opening up a guitar case, when I hear familiar voices just on the other side: Brendon and Shane. Talking. The voices come closer. No, not talking. Arguing.

I stay still, trying to be as quiet as a mouse.

"It'd be rude not to go," Shane says, sounding frustrated.

"They won't notice us missing!" Brendon exclaims. "You know how it is when we go out with this crowd, dozens of people swarm them. They won't even remember you and I exist."

"Bren, it's their engagement party."

"But I don't want us to go!" Brendon snaps. There's a pause, and I can see his look of angered defiance in my mind's eye because it's a look that he's given me far too often. "You and I should be home, not here with these people!"

"But we are here with these people, so –"

"How much material do you need for one goddamned documentary? For god's sake!"

"Why are you so set on hating this project when it's the best thing that's ever happened to me? The contacts I'm making, the people I'm seeing!"

"Famous people. What's so amazing about famous people?" Brendon scoffs, tone despising if ever. When he speaks again, he's struggling to sound more appeasing. "Look. I just don't feel like hanging out with this crowd tonight. So can we please go home? Screw their parties. They happen every night."

"Okay. Fine."

"Thank you."

"You go home if that's what you want."

"Excuse me?"

Shane sounds genuinely upset when he speaks. "I like Greta, she's a damn nice girl. So I'm going. And don't throw it in my face either! Why would I rather be home where you'll just ignore me the way you always do these days?"

"How is this me ignoring you?"

"It is! You know that it is! God, I'm tired of you treating me like – like a liability. You think about that. And this engagement, it'd add a wonderful one-minute scene to the documentary. Imagine Ryan giving a speech or something, what a good scene that'd make! So now I have to go get the equipment we already packed away for the night. But that's not me ignoring you, that's me being busy." He draws in a breath. "What's your excuse?" His tone is close to despising as his steps lead away. I had no idea Shane could have such balls.

Brendon, in turn, swears like a sailor. He walks in circles. He swears more. He heaves a sigh.

I don't move properly until I'm sure that he's gone, only then flipping open the metal locking clasps and opening the hard case. It's not the Gibson I'm looking for. It's not the time to process it either, what I eavesdropped, except to allow myself to conclude the obvious: Brendon doesn't trust me, he doesn't trust Gabe either, and he wants to keep his boyfriend away from us while he figures out what to do.

I wonder if Brendon will depart from the tour before it even properly gets started. Would that make me happy or unhappier?

So they fight. All couples fight.

Brendon doesn't trust me.

I hunt down one of the roadies to ask after my guitar. It hasn't been unloaded, even, and is in the bus's trailer. He offers to go get it, but I take his keys and take on the task myself. Give myself a minute or two to pretend that I'm not thinking about it, fidgeting as I wait for the elevator to arrive, to take me to the parking hall where the bus is.

"Hey," Shane's voice says as he suddenly appears beside me. He's smiling that happy go lucky smile of his, giving no indication of the fight he just had with his boyfriend. He looks tired, though. He looks more tired all the time. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for the show?"

"Still got a bit of time. I need to get something from the bus trailer." I show him my keys.

"Oh, I'm going down too. Need to get more film for the cameras, engagement party and all."

"So you're coming? To the engagement party."

"Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't I?" He laughs like my question is absurd, and I only shrug as the elevator arrives, the doors opening. I follow him in, letting him press the right button.

The industrial elevator hums as it starts going down, and I try to think of something to say. Small talk. Something other than how I've made Brendon come in ways Shane never has, and no matter what Brendon tells me, it's clear that their relationship is not idyllic at all. But I can't rejoice. Because even with all of that, Brendon chooses Shane over me. Makes one wonder what horrible, horrible crime I must have committed to be thought of so poorly. To not matter.

"So where will the party be?" Shane says after a pause. "Someone said that we'll –"

Without any warning, the lights go out. The elevator stops dead, trembling and shaking. I manage to keep my balance, blinking in the sudden dark.

"What the...?" I start. I trace the wall before locating the buttons, but the elevator does not react to the press of my thumb.

"Did it jam? Are we stuck?" Shane asks from behind my shoulder worriedly.

"Does it look like we're moving?" I snap back angrily at his inane questions. "Shit, I don't know. Fuck!" I run my fingers along the wall and this time locate the door before banging on it and calling out. No response. Shane is pressing the buttons fervently, but that's not doing any good. "Maybe we're in between floors," I say when we seem to be attracting no attention.

"But you need to go on soon!" he exclaims and joins me in the banging and yelling. "Hello! Someone? We're stuck in here! Hello? Anyone at all?" He slams the door angrily.

I stare at him suspiciously. "You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

"No. You?"

"No."

"Someone will hear us," he says with such an obvious conviction in his voice that I instantly feel hope leaving me in the face of his faith.

"Go on, try then. I'm tired of this shit. All of this," I breathe, letting myself sit on the floor by the doors that are refusing to budge. I dig into my pocket and soon swallow two codeine pills dry. My eyes are adjusting to the dark – how does it happen again? Rods and cones and all of that, reacting, millions of the damn things in the retina. However it works, it works, and Shane's outline becomes more detailed.

It's not a biggie. No problem. Just a sold out Madison Square Garden waiting to see Ryan Ross, who is stuck in a fucking elevator. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I swear, leaning my head against my raised knees. Stuck with Shane of all people.

"Hang on, I think I – I hear something! Hey! HEY!" He bangs more vigorously. "In here! We're in here!"

To my surprise, it's not wishful thinking because a foreign voice soon echoes from the other side. "Someone stuck in there?"

I quickly scramble up to my feet. "Yes! Yeah, we're –"

"You got oxygen?"

"Oxygen?" I repeat, feeling a stone sink to the bottom of my stomach. No way in hell am I dying with only Shane Valdes to keep me company. No way in hell.

"Yeah!" Shane replies, peering to the ceiling. "Yeah, we do!" A ventilation valve is above us, the slats showing into the elevator shaft above, and maybe we could try to open it, and – and I don't know, somehow get out because fuck it, I've got a show to do.

"Great, now you just hang in there! It's chaos out here so sit tight and –"

"What?" I demand. Sit tight?

"Power's out in all of New York City! No one knows what's happening! If it doesn't come back on soon, the show needs to be cancelled. We've got a full house of restless people out there! It's crazy! We'll come get you, I promise!"

"But... But we – Hey!" I call out. "Hey, you need to let us out of here! For crying out loud! Hey!" I bang on the door, but there is no further response. The bastard's gone. "I'm Ryan fucking Ross, you can't leave me here!" I rage, but it's no use.

Power's out in all of New York? Shit. Fuck. But how – Maybe the thunderstorm.

"Fuck," Shane says, and for once we agree. "Did you tell anyone where you were going?"

"Well, that roadie, but no. No one else."

"Shit. I think we'll be here for a while." He sighs heavily. "So much for- for everything. Greta's engagement party."

"It's a night of big events," I mumble and resume my position on the floor. Shane slides down the door and sits down next to me. He looks defeated, or his outline does. "Here," I say, offering him a cigarette. Not sure if he even smokes. He doesn't, if the way his hand hovers, hesitating, is any indication, but he accepts anyway. I light his cigarette and mine, since oxygen isn't a problem. I take in a deep, deep drag. God. God, what a night. "Wonder if they're looking for us."

He laughs. "Of course they are. You said it yourself – you're Ryan fucking Ross. You're the guy that this show is encircling. They're looking for you frantically, trust me." He flicks his cigarette, his face now slightly illuminated by the red tip. "I wonder if anyone's looking for me at all." His words sound bitter, and I know what he's thinking. His tiff with Brendon is still echoing in my ears. We never – I mean, we've fought. Brendon and I, we've had our fights. Brutal fights. But we've never bickered and snapped like an old couple, but that's what he and Shane are: an old couple.

"You talking about Brendon?" I ask, looking at him. I can't see his expression in the dark properly, but I add, "I've just noticed some tension between you two. That's all."

He sighs. "That obvious, huh?"

I hum in agreement and wonder if I really want to know. Then I realise that I'm stuck with Shane and that I'm a masochist. I do want to know. "You guys okay?"

"Yeah, sure," he says, but then laughs sadly. "I don't know why I said that. We're not okay, no."

"You want to talk about it? I mean, maybe it'll help the time pass." I motion with my hand vaguely, a 'time passing' hand gesture.

He sighs, an undetermined sigh that says that he doesn't know. I realise how little I know of Shane. His friends. His likes. His dislikes. Who is he close to? He and Jon get on, but they're hardly confidants. None of his friends – and I assume he has some scattered in New York and San Francisco – are on tour, so he can't talk to any of them. Well, I'm here. I won't be his friend, but I'll listen. Let him give me his insight on what the hell is wrong with Brendon Urie.

Shane lets out a deep breath that almost resembles a groan. "I don't know... He's just distant. He's not. He's not there, you know? Like sand running through my fingers. And he says he wants to be with me, but I just – Don't know what he's thinking. He's changed somehow. And I thought we were on really solid ground, where we didn't have to question us anymore, you know?" He glances at me with big, sad eyes, waiting for someone to side with him on this.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know exactly what you mean."

A fucked up solidarity washes over me. Shane and I aren't that different in the end. We're both fools for the boy, getting played with no idea at all as to what Brendon is thinking. Shane's still better than me, though. The one Brendon chose.

"Don't get me wrong, I love him more than anything," he hurries to add and then laughs. "I can imagine how gay that sounds to you, but now that I know that you... you know. Men too. I mean. Maybe you can relate a little."

"To be fair, I just fuck men," I tell him with a sardonic smile. He doesn't get the joke, he just laughs like yeah, of course. "But go on."

"Well, sometimes, like today, I just – I get reminded that he's really good at keeping people away. He's always been like that. If he doesn't want to let you in, you're fucked. We'd been together for months before I even managed to get him to tell me anything about his past. I get it now, though. I mean, maybe that's why he keeps people away, you know? He expects people to leave him."

That's funny. As far as I can see, it's Brendon who does the walking away. He has regard for himself. Self-respect. That's what ruined me the first time. All boiling down to some teenage promise of 'never again' when he stood on the side of the road hitch-hiking with his right arm in a cast, hoping that the dark of the night would hide the bruises on his face.

"I've said too much," Shane says apologetically and sucks on the cigarette nervously.

"Not at all. Who would I tell?" I ask, motioning around our prison. Occasionally we hear voices from outside, but none come closer. The electricity hasn't come back on, and I guess that means we're cancelling the show. They must be busy trying to get everyone out in an orderly fashion. I bet Vicky's looking for me. I'm that girl's first thought in everything. Not my fault that the city's electricity is down. Not my fault but I feel a small tinge of guilt that people came out here for no reason.

"Your, uh. Your dad," Shane says softly. "He's sickly, I think you once said?"

"Yeah."

"You see him a lot?"

"No. Haven't seen him in years." And don't plan to and will feel no remorse about it when he dies. That's my plan. That's how it works in my head.

My tone is harsh enough for Shane to drop it. He just mumbles, "I can't relate to losing one's parents, that's all. Brendon was only ten, you know."

"Yeah, that must be tough, that –" Wait. "What?"

"His parents died in a car crash," Shane says, and some kind of a switch flicks on inside me. "He was an only child. He came from a well off family, you know, his dad was a business man, but the aunt he was sent to live with gambled off his inheritance. She didn't care for him, the witch. So when he moved to San Francisco, he didn't have a cent to his name. Can you imagine that? His parents had wanted him to go to Yale. It's not fair, is it? Life." He runs fingers through his hair restlessly. "No one really wanted him growing up. That's how he still views things. Well, I want him. It's been over two years, and I feel like I'm still trying to prove that I want him and won't abandon him. You'd think he'd know that... after all we've been through." He shakes his head tiredly. "Now he's pushing me away. I don't know why. I'm running out of patience, too, and it only makes things worse."

"That's, um. That's a very... unfortunate past. I had no idea."

Shane laughs. "Well. He wouldn't tell you, would he?"

"No. Hardly know him, after all," I chuckle to amplify Shane's amusement over the thought. But I'm not amused. Car crashes, wealthy parents and wicked relatives? My god. And here I thought – I don't know what.

A chorus of voices sound beyond the doors, a rushed, "In here, you said?", followed by banging and Vicky's worried voice. "Ryan? Is it you in there?"

My saviour, that girl.

"Yeah, Vicky," I call out without trying to get up. I keep smoking my cigarette as Vicky shouts for more flashlights and crowbars or anything. Shane's up on his feet again, calling out for our rescue. Suddenly, I've got all the time in the world. In no hurry whatsoever.

My lips quirk up at the corners, and I let myself smirk.

Shattered glass paints the sidewalk as looters help themselves to TVs, VCRs, food and whatever else. We cross the darkened street, police sirens ringing out in the distance. Vicky keeps hurrying Gabe and me to the doors of the Startler Hilton opposite Madison Square Garden.

I'm in no rush. I'm not sure if I've ever seen anything as fascinating in my life: a city in chaos. And all the tall buildings, the dazzling lights of New York, are gone. Instead a long, long row of black, gigantic blocks of dead skyscrapers decorate the streets, and people are walking around looking lost, but some strut with a clear sense of purpose and a baseball bat.

It took them an hour to get us out of the elevator. In the meanwhile Vicky evacuated the rest of the crew to the hotel, which has no electricity either, but she said that they provided the rooms with gas lanterns and candles. She keeps speaking like we're under attack from ourselves. Vandalism has erupted, sure, people are looting and breaking shit, but I feel at home in New York for the first time since I got here. It all fits somehow: Brendon's lies and the pandemonium of the city.

Brendon looked sick when I finally pulled up from the elevator, the floor coming up to our chests as we were in between floors. He was pale. I know what he thought: that locked in with Shane, I'd tell him all about us. All about the way Brendon can come without getting his dick touched, the way he laughs disbelievingly afterwards, golden and godlike.

Lies, lies, lies spilling from Brendon's lips.

I feel more driven insane by my love for him than I ever have. He should have told me.

Shane seemed pleased that Brendon stuck around waiting. Gabe, on the other hand, kept laughing during the rescue operation. He seemed to think it was funny. The dream couple already left for the hotel, but I wanted to go get Greta's Gibson, dragging Gabe and Vicky to the basement with me. The guitar is now in a gig bag, hanging across my back as a strap digs into my left shoulder.

Blackout or no blackout, they've still gotten engaged.

"Come on," Vicky snaps. I'm still standing in the middle of the street, watching the groups of people that are like wandering masses emigrating. Someone breaks a shop window. No alarm goes off. The evening air is hot, the city in the midst of a heat wave. Sweat rolls down my neck. "Ryan, for god's sake!" She grabs my arm and drags me to the hotel doors where Gabe is waiting. I don't want to go inside – I want to stay out, Mom.

"Can't I just walk home?"

Vicky looks furious. "Would Elvis Presley walk home? Would Frank Sinatra walk home?"

"No, he'd have the mobs pick him up," Gabe says. "You're sexy when you're mad, Victoria."

"Ryan," she says, ignoring Gabe promptly. "There's anarchy out in the streets. There are riots in Brooklyn! So you come inside right now and stay safe."

"But –"

"Ryan." My head instantly turns to the direction of his voice. Brendon's at the hotel door, looking at me evenly. "Please come inside."

The streets are buzzing with a new, forbidden energy, and I can't join in. Brendon's asking me to hide and wait for it to pass, for things to go numb again. Because I feel. Suddenly, I feel more than I have in weeks, for him, about him, the world, how it all works. Oh, Brendon. Brendon, you did such a foolish thing.

My feet take the steps up to the huge doors of the hotel that takes the largest chunk of the block, and we enter a candlelit lobby, eerie and otherworldly as our steps echo amongst the marble pillars and bounce off the high ceiling. Brendon leads the way, saying how they were getting worried about us taking so long so he came to check, and that the guys are killing time playing cards in candlelight and playing songs and someone found some booze so it's an engagement party of a kind.

"Gabe," I say, shrugging the guitar bag off my shoulder and passing it to him. "Give that to Greta, will you?" We're at the bottom of the stairs – elevators not working, of course. "Brendon and I need a minute."

We need a lifetime, but I'll start small.

Vicky sighs. She almost glares at Brendon and says, "Make sure he doesn't leave the building." Brendon looks thrown off as my manager begins to climb the stairs. "Hurry up, Saporta!" she snaps.

"I'll tell them something," Gabe says simply, but he doesn't smirk or give that all knowing look he's grown so fond of since the Baltimore incident. Maybe it's something he can read on my face, that now is not the time to be throwing innuendos around or purposefully tease Brendon. He looks almost solemn before hurrying after Vicky.

"Can't it wait, whatever it is?" Brendon asks me, but I shake my head, and I'm surprised that he doesn't put up more of a fight as I nod back to the grand lobby.

"Vicky said you helped put our stuff away," I say vaguely, which he must know is just bullshit, an excuse, but he nods and leads the way to the luggage room. I express a wish to locate a bag I had in the dressing room, the one with an extra shirt because clearly that's what I'm after now when the lights are out: a clean shirt when it's too dark to see stains. No staff is around so we enter the small, narrow room that is barely illuminated by a flashlight someone's left on one of the shelves.

I close the door behind us. He starts looking through bags that are eyelevel with him. "It's romantic somehow, isn't it?" I ask, leaning my elbow on one of the shelves. "A blackout. Although getting stuck in an elevator with Shane isn't really what I'd call romantic, but it could be with the right person." He lets out a dismissive hum and keeps checking the bags. "All of the city is in chaos. Subways aren't running, nothing is open, it's dark everywhere. Hot as hell. Humid. Imagine all the people copulating in all kinds of places right now, maybe in luggage rooms or –"

"Stop it," he says and pulls out a small leather bag. "Is this the one?"

"I wanted to give you my condolences," I say, and he quirks an eyebrow. "I didn't know your parents died."

"They haven't died," he says impatiently and pushes the bag back to its place.

"Oh but – But they did. When you were little, remember? Your rich parents who loved you, but then a bad, big truck ground them to minced meat. Bad truck. Bad, bad truck. And then this – This evil aunt character!" I laugh – try not to laugh but can't help it. "My god, it's like you turned your life into a Charles Dickens novel! And Shane bought it? No, really. He bought it?"

I can't see all the shades in our new monochromatic world, but Brendon might have paled. Yeah. Yeah, he lied alright. But I won't ask him why because I already know.

"That doesn't concern you whatsoever," he says angrily.

"But it does. Because all this time I thought that – that Shane was just better. That he had something I didn't, that you two shared some kind of a holy fucking bond that even your adultery couldn't shake. And now I finally see that he's just a puppet to you! That's all he is! You don't even bother telling him the truth. No, let me finish!" I say when he's about to object. It's like a mystery novel, and we've finally gotten to the part where the guilty party gets exposed, and although it's been obvious from the start that Mr. Urie did it with the knife in the library, the motive has been missing, and now I finally have it. "Because he matters, doesn't he? Shane. He matters because he doesn't know. I can't imagine, Brendon, all the things you did on your travels, all the shit you went through. I bet you've done things you're not proud of. And Shane doesn't know any of that so with him... with him you can pretend that it never happened. I bet you even believe it sometimes, this alternate history of yours. You think that... that if Shane knew, he wouldn't love you. So you lie. You lie to be worthy of his mediocrity."

"Are you done now?" he snaps. I've hit a nerve. Of course I have because I'm right.

"There is a flaw in this scheme of yours, however, and that's that he doesn't love you. He loves the person you're trying to be, but not the person you are. He has no idea who you are. Whereas I –"

"Ryan, please," he whispers, but I'm not done. I feel desperate and urgent, needing to tell him this once and for all. Before I can, he rushes out, "Okay, I've lied to Shane. I didn't – I don't want him to know about my family or what happened. You don't get it, Ryan, but he's not like – not like you or me. He comes from a perfect little family. His mother is proud that he is gay! I mean – Proud parents. I never even thought that could be possible! So there's him, while I'm –" he says, gesturing with his hands but coming up with nothing. "Christ. If he knew, there'd be no end to his questions. He feels sorry for me as it is. So no, I've never told him. But we love each other. We're real. You think what you think but –"

"Your sham of a relationship is falling apart. Can't you see that? Poor Shane's walking around, wondering why you're distant, not knowing that you were never even close! Whereas I know. I know the things you've done. I know the bad in you, all the things you're ashamed of, the ugly parts you don't want anyone to see. I've felt all of it beneath your skin. I know. And you're still beautiful to me."

He has that closed off expression he gets when he's blocking me out, blocking my words out – Shane knows that much, that Brendon can keep us at a distance. I am tormented. I don't understand. I finally know what Shane means to him, the chance to pretend, to redeem himself, even, but life doesn't work like that. We can never remove ourselves from our pasts. I know because I've tried, but I still wake up every day as the son of an alcoholic veteran who didn't have an ounce of family man or father in him, and as the son of a woman who only made herself known by her absence, and I can sing and tour and make hit records, but tomorrow I'll still be the same man. I cannot be magically transformed. I can evolve, but whatever I become is built upon what I was. Brendon is trying to reinvent himself by taking a shortcut. It cannot be done and will only end in disappointment.

I wouldn't tell him to be any different. I wouldn't ask him to change. "Brendon," I say softly. He looks at me. "I know who you are, and I love you."

He breathes out fast and unevenly, dropping his gaze. "Please don't say that."

His pained look cuts deep into me, even through my victory over Shane. "Is it that unpleasant for you to hear?" I ask quietly. No response. "Does my love disgust you?"

"I don't want to have this conversation."

"But why is my love secondary?" I ask angrily, hurt boiling inside me. I don't know what's wrong with me in his eyes. What I can say or do to make him understand the gravity of what I'm saying. Does he think I'm lying? Does he think that my feelings don't correspond to normal human feelings, that my love is a lesser love? "How can you choose someone like Shane when I offer you –"

"You know nothing about Shane and me!" he retaliates, like some line has been crossed and he won't hold his tongue a second longer. "I know I don't deserve him! I know that, Ryan! I've lied and I've cheated when he's been nothing but good to me! You think you've got us figured out, but you don't. You know nothing about us, the things he's done for me, all the –"

"Like what?"

"We love each other despite –"

"Like what?" I demand because there's something here he's not telling me, something that's made Shane such a godlike figure in his eyes.

"You wanted us to be over just as much as I did, but now that you don't have me anymore, you're chasing me again. How fucking typical, Ryan Ross, how fucking typical! God, can't you just stop with this nonsense?"

"Nonsense?" I repeat icily. He says he can hear it in my songs – my feelings for him – but would rather think it's lyrical exaggeration. Wants me to confirm it for him too. But I won't. Can't. I'm not perfect, I know that. He's still mad about Gabe, and would be madder if he knew that Vicky and Jon know too, and I know I've been an asshole lately, ignored his peace offers but all of this has just hurt too much, but now I've turned around and lain myself out there yet again and he still – He still won't. "I didn't know my love for you was nonsense."

He briefly touches his temple like a sudden headache's come on. "I didn't... Come on, I didn't mean it like that. I just –"

"I'm not doing this for the sake of chasing you," I hiss venomously. "I'm beyond that. And we're better than that." I slam the flashlight off the shelf, and it smashes to the floor with a crash. The light goes out.

I get out of the luggage room, back to the lobby. Instead of heading for the stairs, I head straight to the doors. He follows me, calling out my name in this infuriating 'don't be stupid' tone, like I'm overreacting. "Ryan, where are you going?"

"Out," I respond simply.

Out. To join my people.

He doesn't try to stop me.

The city is still covered in black, and two policemen are arresting a man just as I walk out of the hotel, pressing his face against the asphalt.

The man screams like a wild animal.

There's a girl sitting on the steps of my building. She's holding a bottle of champagne and looks like she has walked out of a fashion show. The diamond decorations on her high-heels sparkle as a fire engine with the sirens on speeds down the street. She looks just like I remember her.

"I heard there was a party," she tells me with a broad smile when I stop to take her in. She pushes bushy hair back, still a crazy pink colour. Her heavily done up eyes land on me, dreamlike and soft.

"How you liking it, then?"

"Well, the show was goddamned cancelled. All the lights went out, you see. Lots of new guys around who don't know their classics. I decided to cut the line and managed to get this address."

I smirk. "You been waiting for me?"

"Oh, no. There were some detours." She takes a slug of her champagne before casting a long, hard look my way. "How you doing, Ryan?"

"Not well. I'm in love."

She shakes her head. "Love's such a dreadful thing." She pats the step next to her.

I join her on the third step and take the champagne bottle that she offers. "I need a good party," she muses. "A change of scenery. Just for a few days." There's a question in her voice, and I nod briefly to grant permission.

"You sure know how to start, Audrey."

She hums in agreement.

We watch silently as a darkened New York sinks into a black hole.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 3: Boyd Castro

Audrey doesn't officially join our group of tired rockers until our last night in New York. It's an awkward and tense night, Cassie walking straight out of the room to demonstrate solidarity towards Keltie, I think, like I'm not allowed to move on or to look at other women. One throw off comment to Brendon about Audrey being an old friend of his has him paling before I add that the two met, after all, during the last Followers tour. From what I understood at the time, they even hung out during the break.

Brendon gives me an accusatory look, as if now that I know Shane is clueless about his past, I would just have to drag Brendon's old childhood acquaintance into the mix. I didn't. Audrey just showed up.

The two exchange a cool hello. Guess they didn't become bosom buddies back then.

It's Gabe who ends up taking Audrey home that night. He seems smitten, and Audrey loves the attention. It's no wonder she was such a well-loved groupie back in her day. From what I've heard, she hasn't been around much lately. Someone said she just kind of vanished, like maybe she decided to go home at last. Home. Do groupies really have homes?

Butcher hops on the bus to Chicago that night because a lady such as Audrey should have a seat on the plane. Chivalry isn't dead – it's just stupid.

But I don't object because Audrey makes things brighter. She chats to everyone, but not mindlessly like Greta does. Not at all. Audrey's got a strong, feminine, sexual aura. That hasn't gone anywhere. Patrick stares at her in awe during our flight while Shane asks Audrey to tell him Followers stories. She does, talking about Spencer and Joe and Brent, making us sound like heroes in our own right. She probably knows that neither Brendon nor I will step in with an "actually, that's not how it happened..." She even makes me sound like a nice guy. "Anyway," she concludes, "I merely made a cameo on that tour. Spent the rest of the summer with Bowie and Uriah Heep."

"Really? So who were you –"

"I don't kiss and tell," she smirks. Shane looks all the more intrigued.

Once we get to Chicago, Jon and Cassie go their own way as they're staying with Cassie's parents. Jon's having a hard time trying to remain neutral in the Audrey versus Keltie's ghost conflict and seems happy to be going with Cassie for now. I don't take it personally. I've seen Jon and Brendon hanging out more and more, and all the while Jon is not telling Cassie what actually happened between Keltie and me. It can't be easy for him either.

The rest of us get taken to the hotel for a quick rest with nothing to look forward to except interviews, interviews, radio station and then the arena.

Audrey and I end up lying on our stomachs on my hotel bed, watching Happy Days and smoking cigarettes. She's good company because she expects nothing of me, not even commenting when I throw three pills down my throat.

"So," she says after we've settled, quirking an eyebrow at me. "Do you kiss and tell?"

I frown. Is she expecting sex?

She adds, "Because I've been trying to figure out who it is."

"Who who is?"

"The person who's making you miserable." Ah. I see. Is my misery that plain to see? "I thought it was that dancer girl first, but you haven't said a thing about her. Then Patrick mentioned last night how you were caught cheating. I'd forgotten about that, so then I suspected your manager. God knows she hates my guts," she laughs, which is true. Vicky has been PMSing ever since Audrey first walked in. "But you're not even looking her way. I'm baffled, Ryan Ross. I am very much..." She blows out smoke. "Baffled."

"Guess you'll never know," I say, wondering how well she realises that I'm using her to distract myself. She knows, though. That's what all groupies are: distractions with a side of comfort.

"You know there are..." she starts, her teasing and playful tone now gone. She brushes her pink hair that's dark at the roots.

"Yeah?"

"There are rumours about you."

"I'm sorry?"

She looks slightly uncomfortable but then shrugs. "Elitist rumours, I'd say. Not common knowledge ones by any means." She rushes it out before I get the wrong impression. "Within certain circles, it just has been said that you... Well, a few times you've been seen leaving bars and parties with men. And not. Women. Leaving together is hardly evidence, but – There are rumours." She silences, and I watch Fonzie prancing on the screen. Silence lands on us as she waits for me to say something. I can't think of anything to say, the icy sensation in my guts chilling me to the bone. "Well," she says at last. "I expected you to make a case for yourself or throw me out, but you're doing neither."

"So?"

She shrugs. "So nothing. I mean, look at Elton John – everyone knows he's gay but as long as it remains hearsay, then that's all it'll ever be. Though, come on. Look at what he wears."

"But I'm not gay," I say firmly and suck on my cigarette. My hand trembles ever so slightly. I'm not gay. I never have been. "I'm just... not fully straight. Sometimes." Which isn't the same as full gay all the time. Rumours about my sexuality shouldn't surprise me – how unlikely is it that I've never been recognised when Gabe and I used to go searching for quick fucks in gay clubs? Or that no one's ever seen me with a pretty brown haired boy, going back to his place? There was this one guy who said 'Ryan' when he climaxed, although I'd told him my name was Henry. I knew there must be rumours, but this is the first time those rumours have gotten back to me. Their circulation, if elitist, is still wider than acceptable. They still can't prove any of it, she's right. Not unless I get caught fucking a man or come out and say it, and neither of those things is happening.

Still. Rumours. Fuck, that'd be a stupid way to ruin my career. I wonder if Vicky knows the gossip that floats around. She'd strangle me for sure.

"Not fully straight," she repeats thoughtfully, no accusation in her tone. Well. I suppose she can hardly judge me based on who I sleep with. "See, that broadens the possibilities for me in this guessing game, so..." She laughs. "So as silly as it is, I think I'll hazard a guess: Brendon. Although why you- why you'd be in love with that little oddball from down the street is beyond me."

She stares at me expectantly. I feel nauseous.

It's beyond me too these days. I could write essays on why him and not anyone else, why it was him specifically, but right now I couldn't say. I must be an idiot running after someone who thinks it's nonsense, that my feelings are not to be taken seriously. Who so clearly feels nothing back but I can't bring myself to admit it. I keep telling myself that he does feel something. I know he did, I could feel it in the way we moved, in the way he kissed me. Saying that he missed me. He fucking cheated on Shane for me. It all counts for something but adds up to nothing.

"How do you know?"

"Honey, it's my job to figure out who's fucking who," she smirks. When I don't indicate that I'm amused, she gently says, "Because you two keep looking at each other when the other one isn't looking."

"Does he really?" I ask quietly, and she nods. She might be saying it out of pity, my pathetic longing obvious to her. She knows Brendon's seeing someone else, and here I am, hibernating in a hotel room like a wounded animal.

"You were asking all these questions about him that summer. Were you two...?" She makes a vague hand gesture, and I nod. "So it's an old thing."

"Ancient. Feels like it's been going on my entire life. Doesn't matter, though. History. It doesn't matter what you've – seen or felt or been through together if you decide that it doesn't matter. If he decides that it didn't matter." I stub my cigarette into the ashtray we've placed between our elbows on the bed. Instead of giving her some long and elaborate blow-by-blow account, I only give her the end result because that's what sums it all up, shows what a load of nothing we achieved. "He chose Shane."

"Blah, that Shane character," she says with disdain. "He's too nice."

"Trust me, I fucking know. I just want to punch him in the fucking face."

She laughs, and I can't help but laugh too. It feels good to talk to someone about this. Gabe knows I'm a mess, but nothing he's doing is exactly helpful. He doesn't get how deep it runs. Neither does Vicky. I think Jon gets it, but he, on the other hand, doesn't know how big of a mess I am. And I need to be running this show. Give my band confidence. Whereas Audrey, well – she's on the outside. She keeps her mouth shut. She's only here to make the ride more enjoyable, and if she stops performing that function, I wave her off.

"I'm sure Brendon doesn't think that you two don't matter," Audrey says sympathetically.

"He called it nonsense."

"Well, he – he probably meant that... I mean."

Yeah. Exactly.

A knock echoes from the door, and Audrey gets up like she's been saved by the bell. "I'll get it." She steps over my suitcase on her way over, and I sigh and roll onto my back, the world suddenly upside down. She opens the door slightly, exchanging a few words with a male voice. "Fine. Fine, I'll ask. Ryan!" she calls over her shoulder, "Shane wants to know if he can interview you tonight."

"Too busy."

Shane's voice calls out, "We don't have a single exclusive interview with you yet! Ryan, come on. It'd only take two hours, we could do it after the show or –"

"He's too busy," Audrey says. "In fact, he will never have time for your interview." She closes the door in Shane's face. I start laughing, and she grins as she makes her way back over. "That any better?"

"A little bit."

I imagine Shane standing in the hotel corridor, blinking at the door in shock.

It's a momentary comfort.

Jon's father invites the entire crew over to the Walker residence, which I first assumed he'd probably regret come tomorrow. I forgot, however, that Jon's been in bands since he was a teenager, and so his parents are well accustomed to musicians: there's a buffet of cold beer and as many pork ribs and chicken legs as one can humanly consume. It's a nice change from the drug heavy clubs, standing in the Walkers' living room and signing the new LP for Jon's cousins while his grandma chats with Butcher in the corner.

But I overdo it. I always overdo these things.

It's just slight nausea at first, but soon it's strong enough for me to find the nearest bathroom. I throw up all I've eaten, colourless lumps of dead animal meat mixed with my saliva, poorly chewed. A cold sweat breaks out, and then a headache, and I sit on the floor shivering and take more codeine pills.

It's what keeps me on the road. Makes me pleasantly numb. Sometimes. It comes with a price I'm willing to pay.

"Ryan, are you alright in there?" Vicky's voice comes from outside. She's constantly breathing down my neck.

"Piss off," I call back tiredly. I hear her huffing. We're arguing more and more, Vicky and I.

I gather my strength, rinse my mouth, and eventually manage to get out of the bathroom.

Audrey's organised a small party in the meantime to go climb over the fence of the private pool two blocks down after Jon made the mistake of telling her they used to do that as kids. "Let's go be naughty," she grins.

"Let me just find my hat," I tell her because I found one of Jac's old creations back in New York, and Audrey liked it – I wonder if they would have gotten along had they ever been introduced – and I was wearing it when we got here but I put it down somewhere.

"We'll wait outside!" she calls after me, linking arms with Gabe and joining the eager soon-to-be lawbreaking swimmers.

The hat has been stolen by one of Jon's cousins – I think she intended to keep it as proof or a memory or sniffing material for masturbation, but I reclaim it easily enough as she only stutters when she sees me. I steal someone's pack of cigarettes on the way out, waving bye to the ones who are not as adventurous.

I'm halfway down the front steps when a simple "Hey" stops me where I am. I look back onto the porch to see Brendon there, Shane's leather jacket on him, smoking. I put the hat on, nodding. It's not like him to address me or acknowledge my existence.

"You going swimming with Audrey's group of admirers?" he asks and motions over to the lawn where roughly a dozen rebels are waiting.

"Yeah, sounded like fun. Aren't you coming?"

He shakes his head. "I was planning on going for a walk. Jon said there's a park nearby."

"Ryan! Come on!" someone yells, drunken laughter erupting.

"That's my cue. Catch you on the –"

"You wanna come?"

I stare at him. "Sorry?"

"For a walk, I mean. Although I guess Audrey's more vibrant company." He flicks his cigarette casually. They're calling out for me impatiently, Audrey's voice ringing out the loudest. His jaw sets tight. "Well?"

"Ryan!" Audrey yells demandingly, and I look her way and then back at Brendon. He's staring at his shoes. Audrey's staring at us. He seems to have tensed up.

"Yeah. A walk. Sure."

He looks up, a wave of warmth flushing over me when his brown eyes meet mine. "Okay," he says with a small smile. Okay. Great. Fantastic.

I hastily motion for Audrey to go on without me. She looks ticked off, but then stalks off, the group casting looks our way. Yeah, whatever.

Brendon nudges my shoulder as he passes me, and I try to contain the swelling sensation in my chest. I follow, falling into step with him.

A mild breeze smelling of traffic fumes follows us in the June evening. It's a nice middle class suburban neighbourhood that's quiet at night because the people who live here have work in the morning and their kids don't have a habit of running wild. He smokes his cigarette as we go the opposite way from the others. Just the two of us.

"Where did you leave your boyfriend?"

"Snoring on Jon's parents' bed," he says, shrugging. "He needs the rest."

He doesn't seem to be missing his boyfriend much. Wandering off into the night with me instead.

The park is just around the corner, deserted at this time of night. Houses surround it on all sides, and a playground sits at the heart of it. We aim for it without meaning to, and he sits on one of the swings to finish off his cigarette. It's hardly even a walk, and I'm left wondering what his motives are. Pity? A random act of kindness, letting me enjoy his exclusive company for a little while?

He notices me staring. "What?"

"Just wondering what you want."

"Nothing," he says, sounding mildly irritated. He pushes backwards, and the swing creeps into motion. I sit on the other one and wait. He'll spit it out after a while. I just need patience. That's what I keep telling myself: I have to be patient with him.

"So the second New York show got rescheduled to August?" he asks, and I nod. "That's too bad. It was a crazy night, right?" I hum in agreement as he beats around the bush. "Stressful, too. Kept worrying about you and Shane when you were stuck in that elevator. It made the papers, don't know if you saw. 'Ryan Ross stuck in elevator during blackout'."

"Yeah, Vicky informed me." He worried. He just said that he worried.

"It was chaotic, all of it, even at the hotel. I barely even remember what I said to you."

That makes one of us. I remember it word to word. Another rejection. How many can I take? But now, two days later, he's pulled me aside. He takes in a deep, uneven breath. "Are you fucking her?" He looks at me evenly, but he seems tense. "Audrey."

I focus my gaze on a seesaw, forlornly tilted to one side. Never half and half. Never eye to eye. "Why?"

"She's still in touch with someone back home. That's how I found out that Matt had died back when it happened. I see her, and I wait for bad news."

"Me doing her would be bad news?" I question.

He kicks the ground to make the almost still swing move again. "It'd just be you saying one thing but doing another." He slowly swings back and forth. "Like you always do."

He's not admitting that he's jealous, but maybe that it bothers him. That it might bother him.

"I'm not fucking her," I say silently and honestly. "And even if I were, it wouldn't mean anything." I get out a cigarette but then feel no desire to light it. "You should know that." He should. I've told him time and time again. He says nothing, however. "You still pissed off about Gabe?"

He blows out smoke and laughs bitterly. "What do you think?" Right. Guess I'm not getting off the hook quite that easily. "I thought we had agreed to keep our mouths shut. Isn't that the basis of any affair?" he questions. I don't like the word 'affair'. It doesn't even begin to describe what we had. "Gabe's not gonna tell Shane, though," he then says. "I know that, but that doesn't make it okay." He scratches his nose quickly. "I mean, I guess I get it. If you wanted somebody to talk to." He looks down to his shoes that are sliding half an inch above ground. "You're lucky."

"Lucky?"

"Yeah. To have at least one person you can be honest with."

So he hasn't told a single soul. All those stolen afternoons and lies and secret meetings, and he's kept it all to himself. It occurs to me that he wishes he had been able to talk to someone. Well, who? Ian who has a crush on me? William who hates my guts and loves Shane? Above all, what would he have said to those people? A yearning fills me, a deep-seeded desire to know what those words would have been.

"You can talk to me," I offer.

"About us?" he laughs disbelievingly. Now there's a word I love: us. The way it slips into the conversation and how he doesn't correct himself. Not dead yet. Not dead. "I don't think so." He drops his cigarette and steps on it, his swing coming to a stop. It's not such a crazy idea, for him to talk to me about us. I represent half of the topic, anyway. We just never were the talking kind. Guessing and not saying seemed like more fun. More destructive.

He stands up, the swing swaying on its own accord. At first I think that we're continuing our walk as he takes off, but then he stops. I remain in the swing, fiddling with the unlit cigarette.

He fidgets slightly before saying, "I'm sorry. That I called it nonsense. I know that it pissed you off. I can't know the... the strength of what you feel."

I stare at him, speechless. "How can you not?"

He remains still as clouds shift over the crescent moon, enveloping him in darker shades. Something in his stance, the way he hangs his head, looks vulnerable. Like I see a side of him, a core that I've been fighting to see for months now.

I stand up quickly. "Bren –"

"I should go now." His voice wavers. "I have a feeling that I should go." He smiles my way uncertainly, backing away. I don't follow. I stay still. He smiles wider. "I'm loving the hat, by the way."

I touch the brim of it as he turns around, heading back to the house where his boyfriend sleeps.

Vicky calls out my name from across the crowded suite. I only lift a half-interested eyebrow, not wanting to interrupt my conversation with Patrick about why the clarinet is an underappreciated instrument. Patrick's got a girl glued to his side, a pretty model like thing he'd never have a chance with in real life. He's soaking in the sudden fame like a sponge, loving it even as he's terrified of it. Something about it all reminds me of Joe in the early Followers days, but I try not to think about that.

Vicky snakes through the chattering crowd, excusing herself as she gets guests out of her way: Chicago musicians, our friends, some journalists, some groupies. Vicky's hair is in a careless bun, a sure sign that she's stressed because her hair is always exactly how she wants it to be. Not this time. "Ryan, I need to have a word," she says. Audrey, who has been talking to everyone, now appears at my side, linking arms with me happily. Vicky stares at her pink emergence like it's blasphemous. "Alone," she stresses.

Audrey smiles. "Well, aren't you a greedy thing, wanting Ryan all to yourself."

"I'm his manager," Vicky states and grabs my arm.

Patrick laughs, eyes smiling at me. "Your destiny in this world is to be fought over by beautiful women, eh?"

"It's true," I smirk, giving Audrey's ass a friendly pat as I go with Vicky reluctantly. She's nowhere near as fun as Audrey. One thing I'll give for Pete as a manager – he understood the soothing effect of women on a crowd of sex-hungry musicians. Vicky doesn't.

Vicky heads for the bedroom that I'll be sleeping in once the sun starts coming up. It was another good show in Chicago tonight, the performances slowly becoming a part of a routine. Europe next, then a break, and then the big, massive North American tour. This is a teaser, like Vicky herself put it. Will enable us to push the ticket prices up or something. I'll let her worry about the money.

We almost walk into a kissing Greta and Butcher on the way, their perfect love more obnoxious than ever, but I can't bring myself to mind. Vicky huffs and opens the bedroom door. My eyes land on Brendon in the corner, chatting to Jon again, and he happens to look up and meet my gaze. I stop without meaning to. I mouth 'Hey' because I haven't had the chance to speak to him all day, barely even seen him because of the interview load. He breaks into a small smile, warmth in his eyes. Not rejection.

Jon says something. Brendon instantly looks back to his companion, nodding too much and probably speaking too fast. Nervous.

I'd take him away right now if he let me.

"This is important," Vicky says impatiently, and I sigh and follow her to the bedroom unwillingly. She closes the door while I sit down on the bed, waiting to be lectured.

"Let's have it then," I sigh. She looks confused. "Audrey?"

"No, nothing to do with that pink ball of brainlessness," she says. "Although she is leaving soon, I hope. She certainly isn't welcome for all of the tour, and –"

"She's going soon, yeah." I'm confused. "So what's this about?"

She lets out a deep breath, and only then do I notice how stressed out and thrown off she looks. "It's about Brendon."

She instantly has my attention. I keep thinking about last night, in the park. What would have happened if he had stayed? Did he know he'd stop fighting, and that's why he had to go? I see us sitting on our respective swings, leaning out too far to kiss in the park like two teenagers. I wouldn't have minded that. Let Shane sleep forever, until he becomes forgotten. Until I'm all there is.

Vicky has no interest in Brendon, even less now that she knows he and I are no longer involved. "What about Brendon?" I ask because it's not like Vicky to be speechless. Her brows knit together in what seems to be incomprehension. A sudden chill runs down my spine. "Vicky, if you don't tell me right now, I swear to god I'll –"

"I just got off the phone with my secretary back in New York. He had a message from Mark Reynolds, an A&R for Columbia."

"Are we... changing labels?" I inquire, not understanding where she is going with this.

"Ryan, they want Brendon." She looks at me with a dead serious expression on her face.

I frown. "What do you... I mean. What do you mean?"

She begins pacing nervously. "They asked if I was representing him. Am I? I hardly talk to the guy. I don't have the time to represent him! I need to expand my management company, assign someone else to him. I need to do that. You could talk him into that, couldn't you? Christ! I didn't even listen to the demo! I thought it was you just spoiling your boy toy, and now it turns out that – that." She laughs, shaking her head. "That Columbia wants him."

I've remained frozen throughout her sudden rant. Brendon's demo and the distribution of it have hardly crossed my mind since we split up and my album got released. And Brendon hasn't asked about it so – Well no, if I tried to play the knight in shining armour, saying how I'd give his demo to all these big shots but then later wouldn't give Brendon any news, he'd assume that nothing ever came of it. And even if it occurred to him to ask, he wouldn't come to me. He probably thinks it was a failure, his demo rotting on someone's desk under a pile of a hundred better ones.

Columbia doesn't take on just anyone. Definitely not someone completely unknown like Brendon. No, first they expect you to create a buzz and get a following – Brendon has neither. Only talent. I knew that. I knew that, sure I – But that others noticed it too, I...

"What do you mean they want him?" I ask quietly.

Vicky's eyes sparkle. "A record deal! Advertisement! You know they can make anyone into a star if they want to invest in it – look at Bruce Springsteen! Columbia put a shitload of money into him and he's touring the world! Fuck, that could be Brendon." She laughs like she can't believe the next Bruce Springsteen has been under her nose all this time. I don't. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. Vicky's getting excited now that it's sinking in. I don't think it's sinking in with me.

Brendon's not anything, really, is he? He's been a busboy and a barber and a bartender and a roadie and a venue worker and god knows what else, but never a musician in his own right. He can play as well as me, sure, but he's always been too preoccupied trying to feed himself to fully pursue a career in music. Because it takes arrogance to even think you can support yourself by playing guitar. Fuck, that takes arrogance. Brendon's too good for that. I never was.

So maybe this is his chance to be something. He doesn't know it yet, that he'll become someone.

"Fuck, he's getting a record deal," I breathe out, the bottom of my stomach vanishing. "Well, it... It might not be a success, right? It might flop. He's not necessarily going to become this huge thing."

"Oh, but he's so cute," Vicky enthuses. "I'll clean him up a bit, and he'll be such a heartthrob. A pretty smile, nice lips, a cute butt... We only need to keep his sexuality under wraps. He could be one of those vague Bowie types where you don't know what he fucks. The mystique can be very sexy, you know. That can sell." She's staring into the distance as all of this happens before her eyes. "God, they won't care what kind of music he's playing if we sell it properly." She grins. "Fantastic! This is fantastic! Goddamn, Ryan, I had no idea you had actual scouting skills."

"Yeah." I knew he was good. Of course I knew that. "Can I –" My throat feels oddly dry, and I swallow hard, start again. "Can I tell him? I'd like to be the one to tell him. If that's okay."

"Oh, yes, that's why I told you first. He'll listen to you, and he'll need management now. You have power over him. God, we have to use that angle! We'll advertise him as your discovery! Ryan Ross's protégé!" She laughs again, in a better mood than I've seen her in months. "God, I need a cigarette and a good fuck, and tonight'll be just about perfect." I dig into my pocket for cigarettes, trying to be helpful. She scrunches her nose. "None of those menthol ones. Disgusting. You will talk to him soon, though, won't you? Tonight?"

"Tomorrow," I say, and I can see that this displeases her. "Tomorrow," I repeat, and she sighs slightly.

"Well. I still need a cigarette. A proper one." She flashes a smile at me and walks out, leaving the door open. The chattering amplifies as she disappears into the crowd. I remain seated on the bed and feel... nothing. I'm happy for him. Surely. Surely I'm happy for him. Fucking happy.

He'll be so happy when I tell him.

I get to be the knight in shining armour after all. He'll know that. And then he'll go off and tour the world.

He won't need me.

I'll lose him.

I toss the cigarette pack across the room but not even angrily. Out of frustration. For no reason.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It suddenly feels like the walls are caving in and oxygen is getting sucked out of the room, and the nausea returns. A headache too. Always these goddamned headaches.

I dig out the pill bottle that's always safely in my jacket pocket these days, but it's light, too light, and nothing rattles inside it. Great. Great. Fantastic.

My feet lead me out into the living room and quickly to the door, shaking my head at the people who try to stop me for a chat. Not now. Not right now.

The elevator doesn't come soon enough – and I don't trust those damn things anymore, not at all – and I take the stairs. A hotel security guard standing between the elevator and the door for the stairs recognises me, his eyes widening, but I leave him to his senseless job of guarding Floor 9 from fan invasions, to make sure no one uninvited comes to harass the famous people. My steps echo as I descend one floor at a time, faster, faster, until there are no more stairs.

The lobby is lavish and grand – they always are in hotels for the wealthy – but deserted at this time of night. A tired looking receptionist is handling a teenage girl as I walk to a cluster of couches in a darkened corner, wanting a few minutes of peace. When I get closer, I realise someone's on my chosen couch already, smoking a cigarette with his shoulders hunched.

I flop down on the couch next to him. "Could I get a cigarette off you, man?" I ask, regretting having abandoned the menthol ones I stole from Jon's parents' house.

The kid – he is a kid, in his late teens – jumps and looks at me. His long, frizzy hair reminds me of Joe, but his curls are a lighter colour. "Ryan," he says. Breathes out in a breathy way. His eyes widen and he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. He instantly looks over to the receptionist, and I follow his gaze to the girl. His mouth hangs open like he should yell out to her, but nothing comes out.

"Okay, do you have a George Ross?" the girl is asking.

"No," the receptionist sighs.

"George Smith?"

"No."

"Ross Ryan?"

"No. For god's sake, don't you know the name of your father?"

The exclamation of 'he's here!' seems to have died in the kid's throat. "Ah," I say, leaning into the couch to hide in the shadow a bit better. "Now that's a bit awkward." I hold out my palm, and the kid stares in some kind of shock before he kicks into motion and passes me a cigarette out of the pack he has in his breast pocket. "Do I get a light?" I ask once the cigarette's snugly between my lips.

"YeahofcourseRyansurething. Sorry. Sorry, that was so rude. Fuck, sorry."

I take his lighter and use it as he keeps apologising, looking more horrified by the second.

"Don't fret it," I tell him, and he nods and apologises again before catching himself. He has the sense to laugh embarrassedly.

"I-I've been to b-both of your Chicago shows, and we were in New York, I don't- I don't suppose you recognise me, you signed an album for me once back in -73, I had different hair then, it was more like, like floppy, I guess, but hair spray, that does wonders and god, so many questions I've always wanted to ask you!" He offers his hand, hope shining in his eyes. "I'm Sisky!"

I take it. "Ryan."

"Trust me, I know who you are!" he says, still clearly disbelievingly. "You're a poet. You are. I wanted to- And the new album, it's just so raw. When I first heard you sing, 'We're still in hiding, the only place you'll ever let us know', and the energy, the anger, I just – God, I was speechless. I am speechless. Fuck." He rubs his face quickly.

I forget to smoke my cigarette. "Well, since you know him so well," I say, wanting to add the kid's name but having forgotten it already, "do you think George Smith would... sabotage the dream of someone he deeply cared about?"

He blinks. "But why would he – you do that?"

"Out of selfishness."

"No. No, of course not," he hurries out, suddenly worked up.

"Out of fear."

"He doesn't fear anything. He doe – You don't fear anything. Don't you know who you are?" He sounds astonished.

I look toward the girl on the counter, the receptionist now threatening to call security if she doesn't remove herself from the premises. "I'm Boyd Castro." I rub my nose quickly. "Thanks for the cigarette, kid."

He stares at me with big eyes as I get up and head out. "Anytime."

"He wants you. He does, trust me."

"Yeah, the way he keeps away from me clearly shows that," I reply tiredly. Audrey's job is to make me feel better, so she'd probably say anything at this point to achieve said effect. We stare at the ceiling as we lie on the hotel bed together, not having really started the day properly yet. A half-eaten croissant is on the nightstand from a failed effort to have breakfast. We're both in our underwear and still mostly sleepy.

"He's jealous," she says, and I snort. "Come on, at Jon's parents' house? He was jealous. Him and I are civil enough because we have blackmail material on each other, but trust me, Brendon is not my fan when he sees us together. I know relationship games. He's playing you."

"Playing me?"

"Juxtaposing you and Shane, making lists of pros and cons. He can't just surrender." She laughs. "No, no, that'd spoil it. He's testing you. You gotta stay still, and that's it. He'll fall into your arms soon enough."

"Fantastic. Do nothing. That's great advice." I sigh heavily. "But then what? He falls into my arms, and then what? Do you know how many good musician friends I've got? None. None because successful musicians are too fucking busy."

She remains quiet for a while, humming. "Well, maybe he could tour with you. Be your support act. Come on, it's a record deal, not a deportation." She tilts her head my way, her hair falling on the pillow. "And you forget that he wants you around as much as you want him. You'd find ways to be together."

"In our little fantasy world that doesn't exist," I say because I need to remain cynical at this point. Pretend I am cynical. How can one smile from him mean so much, fill me with so much hope? He'll love me for getting him a record deal. Sure. Maybe I should see it as a good thing, as yet another thing I've done for him that Shane hasn't. And then what Vicky said about Brendon's sexuality, well, Shane would have to be kept secret. How would that go down? Would that be the last nail on their coffin? Maybe the record deal is a good thing. Maybe it can be a good thing. And then sure, Ryan Ross and The Whiskeys will whisk him on tour, and it'll be flashing lights and us laughing in the backs of limos as far as the eye can see.

But a little something called life experience tells me that it won't end up that way.

It's an ugly business. He's led an ugly life, so he'll probably be okay. He's not blue-eyed.

And he deserves a break. He does. So Audrey's right. I can turn it into a victory, and someone from Vicky's company will manage him, and we can keep him close and grateful and ours. And he'll smile at me with warmth in his gaze, and I will fight my way through one inch at a time, until there is no contest between me and Shane, until the day comes when I'm the obvious choice.

"Just imagine that big, fat smile on his oversized lips when you tell him," Audrey says. "He's won the goddamned lottery thanks to you, so just remind him of the fact that you're his most powerful friend. He's in eternal gratitude to you now."

"I haven't thought of it like that."

"You should, so smile already." She pokes my bare side, and I swat her hand away, laughing. She grins. "There we go. That's a smile." She cranes her neck to look at the clock on the nightstand. "Got two hours before my bus leaves. Don't want to go, really."

"Then don't."

"I have to. Took off without saying anything. It just got a bit too much, real life, and now I've got one pissed off husband and a needy seven-month-old wondering where the fuck I am." She sighs and burrows into the sheets slightly. I hide my surprise. "But I like this. Pretending. That's what I always liked about this. The clinical smell of hotel sheets and the bright, bright lights of the stage."

I reach out to touch her hair, my fingers slowly carding through the pink locks. I don't ask any questions. We musicians are always selfish that way – only interested in ourselves. She knows that. That was the attraction in the first place, a chance to forget herself.

She props herself on one elbow. She's got mascara stains on her cheeks, little black flecks. She lifts her eyebrows. "You want a blowjob, at least?"

I stop to consider this. "Sure. That'd be nice."

She tucks hair behind her ears and smirks. "We'll call it a kiss goodbye."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 4: Columbia Dreams/Codeine Visions

Our jet is lost. Not sure how that can happen – it was meant to be in Hangar D, but it's not. Our pilots are none the wiser, and Vicky is busy yelling at the staff of the private airport. Most of us are slung on the hard seats of the small waiting room, dust flakes drifting in the air as sunlight comes through the dirty windows. We're sleep deprived and hungover, Greta and Butcher leaning on each other as they sleep in the corner. The air is stale and somehow too warm to breathe.

"Coffee would be great," Gabe croaks from beside me. He sounds like Satan's been fucking his mouth all night. He's got sunglasses on because apparently the light hurts his eyes.

"Vicky!" I call out, causing Gabe to flinch. "Can we get coffee?"

The airport worker she's talking to looks over her shoulder. "There's fresh coffee in the office." He motions to a door with slated venetian blinds over the window. He doesn't seem very bothered about the fact that his staff has misplaced our fucking plane. We only need to get to Florida. We're only number one now. No big deal.

"Office... too far... away," Gabe groans, reaching out pathetically and then slumping back in his seat.

"You sad fuck."

"Ryan. Ryan, ayuda, por favor. Necesito café." He pushes closer and nuzzles my shoulder. "I'll love you forever." He smells of old booze, cigarettes and some girl's perfume.

"I thought you already did."

"I'll love you more."

"Unlikely."

"I will. I really will." He looks up at me with plate-sized eyes, lower lip jutted out. I sigh as I push him off and stand up, and he makes a little purring sound like he's now overly pleased. He takes the opportunity to lie down on the seats, adjusting the butterfly collar of his shirt before stretching out, as if to make sure he looks good like this too.

I cross the room quietly so as not to wake up anyone. Vicky is hissing that the staff better move the other plane, then, if it's in the way of ours.

The office is small and cluttered, and I go straight for the old sixties coffee machine on the corner table next to a half-finished airplane model. I open the cupboards to find a mug or a glass since we're not being picky.

"You can rinse mine."

I look over my shoulder to find Brendon sitting by a small desk. He's extending a white mug with a cartoon kitten on it, his feet propped up on the paperwork on the desk. He's got a magazine in his lap, and it looks like I've walked in on his coffee break. He's smiling, though. Smiling.

"Thought you went for a walk with Cassie and Jon," I say, as if to explain why I am in the same room with him. Not on purpose – pure accident. I take the mug from him in any case.

"Was going to but then I found this." He lifts the aviation magazine, the cover showing a bikini-wearing woman posing in front of an airplane. "It's fascinating stuff. About, like, planes."

"I'm endlessly intrigued," I say as I fill up the mug with lukewarm coffee, and he chuckles. Making him smile always feels like a small victory.

He goes back to flipping the pages, and some of the tension in the air has lifted. "So what did you get up to last night? You disappeared from the party pretty early on."

"I went for a walk," I say honestly, although I don't want to think about it because then I – Yeah. Yeah, too late now because it's now on my mind: his record deal that he is clueless to. I just haven't had the chance to tell him yet. I've been busy with other things.

"A walk by yourself?" he asks, not looking up from the magazine.

"By myself."

He makes a humming sound, but then seems to get bored of the magazine and tosses it on the table. "And Audrey left this morning, then?" He looks inquisitive, scratching himself behind the ear as his eyebrows arch in question.

"She did. Patrick and Gabe will miss her for sure." Vicky or Cassie certainly won't. Brendon's clearly checking up on me, but now is the wrong time to be doing it. I clear my throat slightly. "Anyway, the coffee's getting cold, so –"

"Are you okay?" he asks, frowning. Of course I am. I am so okay.

"Yeah, man. Groovy. Just a bit tired."

He doesn't look convinced. He can't read me that well, can he?

Audrey said that Brendon's weighing the pros and cons. A record deal is a pro. Certainly. But I just need to figure out how to word it, just need some more time to process the thought myself. I promised I'd do it today, but there still are eleven hours to go. Maybe tonight when we get to Tampa – we're not doing a show there until tomorrow, so we'll have more time. I just need more time.

"You're not sleeping well, are you?" he asks in this knowing tone, quickly getting up from his seat. "Here, sit down for a while." He picks up papers that are piled up on the other chair, motioning for me to sit. I reluctantly obey because he'll know something's wrong if I run for it.

"I'm sleeping here and there," I say, protesting slightly.

He sits back down, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "Yeah? Because you don't look it." There's sincere concern on his face that feels unbearable to handle.

"So you're saying that I look like shit."

"No, you look good. Of course you do. Just unsettled." And getting more and more unsettled. What does 'of course' mean? Because I think he always looks good. Always. When he's exhausted with reddened eyes, when he hasn't showered in four days and his hair is greasy, and when he's walking away from me. Of course he looks good. "If it makes you feel any better, you seem to be handling touring a lot better than you did last time." He smiles benignly.

"Not plotting Joe's murder probably does help."

He laughs at my stupid joke, even though we both know it was a lame comeback. And I am still kind of planning Joe's murder – seeing that asshole's face on the covers of music magazines with his Menace glam rock band makes me kind of homicidal.

"So it's the touring that's getting to you?"

I shrug. Partly. I don't exactly thrive on this. It's stressful and exhausting and never-ending, but I'm surviving. Partly the tour is getting to me, but for the most part it's him. Of course it's him, and not necessarily even because of us. "It's just not an ideal life, is it?" I ask. "Being a professional musician."

"Money, fame... Yeah, must be horrible." He's smirking, though.

"Come on, you've seen what it's really like. Since day one you saw through all the flashing lights. It's artificial. The hotels and the gift baskets and the champagne and the limousines... The girls," I add, and he nods in a 'well, that's true' kind of way. "Look at where we are." I motion around the tiny office, stuck waiting for our plane as the heat glues our shirts to our skins, the electric fan in the corner covered by dust like it broke five years ago. What's glorious about this? What's rock 'n roll about any of this? "There are easier, more genuine ways to make a living. I think so, anyway. I only do this because it's the only thing I know."

"I think it's pretty great," he says, and something in me sinks. "A new city every night, the open road... It's exciting. There's this buzz in the air. Everyone's excited to see you play, to hear you sing all the songs... Well. Almost all of the songs." He flashes a nervous smile at me. I still won't play 708. I never will. I wonder what he's dissected from its lyrics, if he's slowly realising that it's not exaggeration. I'll never forget the night I wrote it, the sickening disappointment and loss swirling in my stomach. Knowing he was sleeping on our hotel bed, unaware that I had left. "Trust me, this beats all the shitty jobs I've ever had. You're lucky."

"So you'd want this life?"

"If I could. If I had the talent." He rolls his eyes at his own words apologetically, but he doesn't sound like a dreamer. He doesn't even know that his dream has become something tangible.

I was hoping that The Followers was a warning sign for the shit that fame does to people. I hoped that I was a warning sign for him.

"There is a rootless feeling to it all, though," he then amends. "Forgetting what city you're in, never being home. Not having a home. I've had that before. Well, you know I have." He looks at me like he and I share some kind of an understanding. "It's sad, sometimes. Like, I see you in a crowded room, and all of these people are queuing up to talk to you, and... I don't know. You look lonely. You never laugh the way I've fe – seen you laugh." He corrects himself a second too late. My chest feels empty, a cavity in it.

"So maybe it's not the lifestyle that's fucked up. Maybe it's just me," I suggest. Joe thrives on this kind of a life, so did Brent. A lot of people do. Spencer didn't. I never have either although I wouldn't let it go. No. It's better to be influential and miserable than to be some average Joe who never did anything, didn't know anyone, and led a remarkably insignificant life. Brendon might be better suited for this kind of a ride than I am. He's seen its ugly sides and is still here, is saying he can still see the appeal of it.

Maybe I could offer to play on his record, say it was a label decision, to create some buzz by having me on his album, or – or then, I don't know, I could write a few songs for him to play. Make Vicky talk to Atlantic, steal him onto our label from Columbia.

It doesn't mean we have to go our separate ways.

He might not even want the record deal. Right? He might not want it.

I can't sleep. I walked around Chicago until sunrise, then found Audrey in my bed. I won't be able to sleep as long as this is eating me up inside.

"I need to tell you something," I start slowly. He looks concerned, but it's not about me or my sleeping habits or the lack thereof. "Some news. Although you should remember how fickle the music industry is so no one knows what actually happens until it really happens, but..." I place the kitten mug on the table. He seems confused. I wring my hands, trying to find a way to word it properly. "Vicky just got a call from this guy, works for this label. He'd heard your demo, one of the ones I passed on. He wants to talk to you."

Brendon blinks. "What?"

"I don't know. I mean, wanting to talk is hardly a promise of anything, is it? And you know labels are bitches. They're always breathing down your neck, wanting you to change things. We had to go back to the studio for Boneless to put a hit on it. Fucking cunts," I murmur, but I clearly haven't distracted him enough. His eyes are wide, and he's paled. "It might not amount to anything," I hurry to say. "Just keep that in mind."

"...A label guy wants to talk to me?" he clarifies. "To me? I mean, it's not some mess up, is it? He really heard my demo and wants to talk?"

Unfortunately.

"Yeah."

"Oh, fuck," he breathes out in astonishment, standing up quickly. The chair legs screech against the floor. He holds a hand over his mouth, then it moves to his hair, his t-shirt lifting, exposing a strip of pale stomach with dark hair cutting across it, and I try not to notice it but I do. He lets out a strangled sound of shock and begins to pace. "What label?"

"They're all the same, aren't they?"

"Ryan."

I hang my head. "Columbia."

He stops. "What? Did you just- Columbia? Columbia Columbia?" His disbelief is obvious. I nod my head. Not some small label either, of course not, but one of the biggest, most powerful labels in North America. "Oh my god. Oh my god, I'm going to pass out. I'm going to faint. I see black. It's getting black!"

Alarmed, I stand up quickly, ready to make him sit down. When my hands land on his shoulders, however, I'm startled when he steps in and hugs me tightly. "Oh god, oh god," he repeats, wrapping his arms around me. And then, "Fuck!" He laughs, sounding slightly hysterical.

"What did I tell you about not getting carried away with it?" I ask quietly, his warmth not only pressed against me but penetrating, getting in deeper, washing over me. His warmth and his touch, things no longer mine. I hug him back, trying not to be greedy about it. Trying to hold on.

"Thank you," he says, sounding choked up. "Even if it doesn't go anywhere, I – God, Ryan, thank you." He pulls back, eyes shining, and it's not often that anyone gets to see him happy like this. It's contagious. He laughs, blinking too much, and he quickly wipes his eyes. He looks slightly embarrassed for getting so emotional. He is the most perfect definition of beauty I have ever seen.

I pull him back into my arms. He hugs me just as tightly as he did before. I kiss his temple briefly and without thinking, and it's only when he doesn't shove me back that I realise that he might have done just that. He laughs against my neck, repeating "fuck, fuck, fuck," and I smile against his hair. I did this for him.

"You'll come with me, right?" he asks, voice rushed. "To this meeting thing."

"Of course," I promise instantly. Of course. Knowing the music business, insider information, don't want him to get screwed over. He needs me. Audrey said that he might.

He needs me.

"Thank you," he says again, sounding like he means it as we keep the tight embrace. Heavy weight rolls off of me the longer the hug lingers – past acceptable, justifiable – until we just stand there because it feels good. And right. The scent of hotel shampoo in his hair, the hot air bringing out a smell of slight sweat on his skin. He's still thrumming, adrenalin, shock, and I hold him until he calms down, until nothing is left except his golden smile and gratitude.

Anything for you, kid. Anything.

With me on the side.

The way he clings onto Shane is sickening. The way Shane clings onto him is just as bad. They're happy, I get it, happy for Brendon and the interest Columbia has now shown in him. But the way they keep touching each other is vile.

The restaurant is a public place, and we're scattered to seven different tables: the band, the film crew, the techs. A night off, live a little. Celebrate Brendon a little because everyone knows the news by now. Champagne for all. Limos from our hotel in Tampa – that hotel, that goddamned – to Madeira Beach. What the hell – it was only an hour to the Gulf of Mexico, anyway. Shrimp cocktails to start with and plenty of wine for all.

Vicky's trying to woo him. Yeah, Brendon's interesting now. Only now.

I've left the company and settled at the bar, drinking whisky and nibbling on the salty peanuts. I keep looking over to the table where Brendon is, how Shane casually has his hand on the back of Brendon's neck even as he's talking to Cassie across the table. Vicky keeps ordering more booze. She isn't even concerned about me or their public displays of affection.

I said that I wanted to work on some new lyrics. They let me be as they think I'm working.

Mostly the restaurant is empty. It's getting late. The staff will let us stay, though, the owner doting on us and running around to get whatever we want. We saw the sunset through the window earlier, the sun sinking into the sea. The restaurant's right at the beach.

This was meant to be my victory. My day of glory.

Not Shane's who has never supported Brendon's music. Shane's career came first: Shane's art and Shane's photography and Shane's documentary, Shane, Shane, Shane. Never even made it to Brendon's open mic nights, did he?

And now he's the proud boyfriend.

The two seem to have forgotten all the previous fights and disagreements. I crunch on peanuts with the force of my teeth, my sharp canines. Oh, Shane is such a proud partner or boyfriend or fool. That excited look on his face. Slight astonishment. Yeah, smile while you can, before Vicky tells you that you and your sexuality are going underground.

This wasn't meant to bring them together.

I squeeze my whisky glass too tight. Stop it. Don't be so obvious.

I smoke heavily, but don't touch the whisky too much. I don't want to cause a scene. I made some calls before we left Chicago, though – a fresh batch of codeine pills was waiting for me at the hotel reception. They hit me hard when I drink too much.

Let's try not to drink too much.

He laughs. They laugh. They have moved their chairs closer to one another's. Accidentally, I tell myself. By pure, pure accident. They don't notice me.

"Top me off," I tell the bartender, and he does. I drink down the sixteen-year-old golden liquid and get up.

Enough's enough, Ross.

I walk out of the restaurant, still smoking, my shoulders hunched. I cross the parking lot, to the steps that lead down onto the beach. Palm trees sway in the wind. Someone's walking their dog in the distance. It's not New York. It most certainly isn't New York.

Halfway down to the sea, I sit down on the sand. The wind ruffles my hair softly. I swallow two codeine pills, absently rubbing my left elbow. It'll be okay. It won't be too bad.

"Fuck this," I sigh heavily and drop onto my back, my knees bent as my shoes dig into the sand. The ocean keeps breathing, I hear it touching the shore. Smoke swirls from my glowing cigarette tip into the sky, against the dark blue of it where stars are twinkling brightly. Thousands and thousands of light years away... I remember when Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon. I was packing. I didn't go to my high school graduation but stayed in my room, listening to the new album of another Neil and figuring out what to take with me now that Spencer and I were taking off. We hitch-hiked across America, and Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. That big, pale thing above my head. It's far away. It's damn far away. Neil Young kept singing in my head. We travelled the same length, Neil and Neil and I.

This record deal was a small step for me, but a giant leap for Brendon. I saw us together, chasing the moonlight.

So much for that.

I'll go to that meeting with him. I'll hold his hand. And then I'll be right back here, at square one, wondering how these things manage to backfire on me.

I'm getting tired of being so fucking politically correct. Of waiting.

I used to just fucking take him. No questions asked. No need for permission. I had him wrapped around my finger. And –

"So where are you right now?"

I look up, seeing his silhouette upside down. His tone is playful: our old 'where are you supposed to be right now?' game to see which one of us lied better.

"I'm lying on the sand and smoking." I inhale deep and exhale further smoke. "Where are you?"

"On the phone to William to tell him about the meeting. You know he'd freak out so it'll be a lengthy phone call. They were kind enough to let me use the phone in the office." He walks closer and sits on the sand next to me. I try to assess the situation: he takes walks with me, he sits me down for coffee with him, he follows me out onto the beach... It's a change from him avoiding me like the plague or temptation or the thing that ruins his life and fucks him up. He's seeking me out.

"Where are you really, though?" I ask, tone challenging.

"Out on the beach with Ryan Ross, who discovered me. Vicky's got this whole advertising campaign planned," he chuckles before he shivers slightly. It's not cold by any means, but he's only wearing a blue t-shirt that blends with the sky. "All the attention got a bit overwhelming back there."

If he gets a record deal, he better get used to the attention.

He lies down next to me, his arm briefly brushing mine. He'll get sand in his hair, but he doesn't seem to mind. His hand reaches out expectantly, and I pass him the cigarette. I look at the stars. He points up. "That one over there is Gemini."

"Where?"

"That one." He shuffles closer until our heads are touching. I squint and follow the angle of his finger.

"Oh yeah."

"I don't know how exactly it's meant to look like twins."

"If you look at it sideways, it does," I say, leaning my head to the side. "Arms, two pairs of legs... See? There." I draw lines into the air.

He is also tilting his head. "Yeah, I kind of see it now."

"You know how they got up there?" I ask him, feeling the shake of his head against my own. "The twins were Castor and Pollux. They had the same mother, but different fathers. Don't ask me how," I add when he draws in a breath like he's about to object. "It's Greek mythology, anything's possible. But because of this, only Pollux was immortal. Castor was a mere human. They were inseparable, but then Castor died in battle. Pollux couldn't deal with the loss of his twin, and so he offered his immortality, was willing to give it up. A compromise was come to: one day Pollux would be on Mount Olympus and Castor would be in Hades, and the next day the other way around. Immortal but never together. Well. That's one of the sadder versions. They also say that Zeus took pity on them and made them stars in the sky, to be immortal together for all times." I trace the invisible lines of the constellation with my fingers. "And there they still are."

"I think I like the second version better," he says quietly, passing the cigarette back.

"I think I like the first."

He breathes evenly in the dark. We hear female laughter from a distance, maybe the parking lot or somewhere along the beach. Happy and faraway. A dog barks.

"I've got one," he then says, leaning in again and pointing at the sky. "A Gibson's Flying V. There's the guitar neck, and there's the body."

"I see it. What's it called?"

"The Guitar constellation. Obviously."

"Well, obviously."

He laughs softly. I take a final drag of the cigarette and flick it away into the dark. "I got one too," I say. "See those four stars there that kind of form a line? That's the Line constellation."

"Oh wow. You're so knowledgeable."

"It's true. I am."

"Are you sure that's the Line constellation, though? See, if you continue it there, like this, and it curves and comes back down..." He shows what he means, and I nod, humming. "Well. That just looks like someone's dick, doesn't it?"

"Trust you to find a cock up there."

"That's the Penis constellation."

"Your personal favourite, I take it?"

"Depends on who it's attached to," he muses in a mock serious voice. I snort and give his shoulder a gentle shove. He snickers. Fucking kid.

He takes a hold of my hand before I can pull it back, his fingers lacing with mine. He doesn't look at me but keeps gazing upwards, our hands settling on his stomach.

A sudden tranquillity and awareness stir up in me. Perfect ease and unbearable tension at the same time. He's fucking with my head. His thumb slowly brushes over my knuckles, his index finger drawing circles onto my palm, and he's fucking with my head.

"I just wanted to say thank you. About the meeting with Columbia."

"I only passed your demo along. It's all you from there." Our hands rise and fall with his even breaths. He seems comfortable like this, at ease. My mind races. "Are we leaving any time soon? Back to Tampa and the hotel."

"Ah. The... hotel."

"What?" I ask because he's got this ominous tone to his words.

"We've stayed there before. On The Followers tour. A bit odd."

"Why?" I tilt my head to the side to see his profile. "Because it's the first place we ever fucked?"

"Well... yes, actually." He laughs nervously. I recognised the place the second we walked in, a hundred memories suddenly feeling as recent as yesterday. We're not on the same floor, not in the same room, but Brendon remembers a lot more than he's letting on. I hoped that he recognised it too – remembers us making out in the corridor, barely making it to the bed in his and William's room. Fuck, I had no idea what I was doing, but I got him off, I fucked him well. Hasty and clumsy and needy. Not knowing any of the little things that make him tick, not behind refined in the art of fucking men at all, but it was all the more intense because of it. Every touch a discovery.

I'm not surprised that it's on his mind. It is on mine. He knows our anniversary, and he knows the sightseeing spots in the history of us. I just thought he'd deny it, the way he has all this time.

"I just thought –" he begins but then stops. "God, I don't know." A helpless laugh. "Too many memories, you know? And comparing to then and now, it's all so different. We're really different." He exhales steadily. "We were young. I think we were both angry with the world back then. Maybe that's why we got along."

"Speak for yourself. I'm still angry."

He laughs. I'll say anything to make him laugh.

"Two things happened in that hotel," I reflect quietly. "One – I was inside you for the first time. That changed my life." The steady up and down of his breathing stops. "And two – I watched that anchorwoman kill herself."

His fingers stop rubbing my hand. He moves to lie on his side, leaning on one elbow that digs into the sand. He doesn't let go of my hand. He looks surprised and solemn. "You never told me that."

"The two things aren't related. Not really. But I connect them." I let myself reach out to touch his hair, feeling grains of sand falling as I card through the locks. "Out of the two, I prefer the memory of your face when you came."

"How fucking romantic," he whispers. There's a moment, a lull, a sharp tug in my stomach. His hand slides over my mid-section, and my fingers twist in the hair at the back of his head. His eyes meet mine and then drop onto my lips. Repeat history. Quickened heart beats. A rush of blood. Be mine, be mine. He swallows hard, breathing shallow. Come on, give up already. "I..."

"Don't think about it," I say quietly, gently pulling him down. Don't. Just let it happen, for the tide to come and take us away. It's just a kiss. Now when has that ever gotten us fucked?

He stops mid-movement of leaning down. His hand, which has slid down to curl around my hip, feels over my pocket. His eyebrows knit together. A small rattling sounds louder. The pills.

I freeze. Fuck.

His agile fingers slip into my pocket before I can stop him, and then the pill bottle is in his hand. He stares at it unblinkingly. "What are these?" His voice is sharp and focused, none of the previous soft playfulness in it, with none of the magic I just managed to perform on him.

"Vitamins."

I try to reach for the bottle, but he moves to sit on his knees, the frown not going anywhere. He's examining the label carefully – it's prescribed to a Mrs. Anne Brown, if my memory doesn't fail me.

"What's codeine?"

"It's a vitamin. A type of vitamin."

He looks me square in the eye. His lips form a thin line. "I don't believe you."

He stands up swiftly, and I am left scrambling up to my feet, trying to follow him. "What exactly are you doing?" I call after him.

"Confiscating these until I find out what the fuck they are!" he replies angrily. I stop, watching him storm back to the parking lot. He climbs the steps two at a time, my pills firmly in his grip.

Well, fuck. There he fucking goes, then.

I don't sleep well that night, but it's not because of Brendon and his possession of my pills. I'll tell him something, anything, I'll swear and he'll believe me. I wouldn't lie, would I?

It's the headache that keeps me up. I listen to night time radio and stare at the ceiling: Crimson Gone comes on at quarter to two. Miranda's Dream comes on at four. In this damn hotel, in some other room – smaller, not grand like this one – I tasted his flesh for the first time. I try to jerk off to the memory of it, but then the headache comes back, and I give up in my efforts. I try reading a book. Formulate what I'll say to Brendon come breakfast, because really, him stealing my property is starting to get less funny. I need those pills. It could be life-threatening not to be taking them regularly – he can't know that.

What a fucking arrogant prick.

But no, I have to be nice about it. Ask nicely. Kindly. Firmly. Calmly.

If he shows those pills to Vicky, I'm fucked. No. He wouldn't. Would he?

I keep tapping my thighs nervously, smoking chronically. I don't feel too good at all. What's his room number? No idea. Cuddling there with Shane, together with their Columbia dreams.

There's no rush.

No rush.

I'm calm.

I try to get back to bed around six o'clock, slipping under the covers. The headache has faded, but it's not defeated. I feel it in the back of my head, throbbing, waiting for its time. Sneaky bastard. And I manage to fall asleep, clearly I do, because the next thing I know is a firm knock on my door. I know that knock – it's Vicky's 'you better be up or else' knock. I groan and roll out of bed, pulling my briefs up just in case so that Vicky doesn't get any ideas. I must have slept in, I must have –

The alarm clock on the nightstand shows that it's ten to seven. Who does Vicky think she is, my fucking master? I'll throw a Spartacus on her ass. She should know that I do nothing before noon.

I pad to the door sleepily, already irritated. Not my ideal way to start a day. "Alright, alright," I bark when her knocking persists. "Am I late for something?" I ask, opening the door.

But it's Brendon who pushes the door open the rest of the way and walks straight past me. "Morning to you too?" I frown. He's fully dressed and seemingly alert – what on earth has he been doing this morning? He stops and looks around, and then enters to the bathroom. I push the door closed uncertainly. Maybe he really needs to piss?

Then I remember that he has my pills. I quickly follow him but stop at the door. He's going through my toiletries bag that's on the counter. "What are you doing?" I ask in confusion.

"Making sure you have no more of these," he says, pulling the orange bottle out of his pocket and continuing on in his raid.

My insides clench at the sight of the pills. Fuck, I need those. "My vitamins. Can I have them back now?"

"Vitamins?" he repeats, stopping in his inspection. It's only when our eyes meet that I realise how furious he looks. I almost do a double take. "You and your fucking vitamins!" he all but shouts. "I don't –" He stops to quote the description that he clearly knows by heart. "'Take every four to six hours as needed.' That'd be, what? A maximum of six a day? And how many of these are you popping?" The obvious despise in his eyes renders me speechless. "You're stupid. You're so fucking stupid!"

Suddenly, he's twisted off the cork and has tipped the bottle over the toilet. "What are you –" Dozens of small pills pour out in a sudden shower. I stare in horror.

"Back off!" he yells and holds out his hand when I try to intervene.

"Have you lost it?" I yell angrily, an ache in me spreading as the last ones drop into the bowl. His hand reaches for the lever. "No! Don't you fucking dare!" His hand doesn't even hesitate, and the toilet flushes itself. He steps out of the way just in time as I rush over, but nothing of my pills remains. My stomach drops as I watch the water swirling. No, no, no, no, nononono. "Christ, Brendon, why did you do that?"

"Why would you do that?" he counters, more angry than I've ever seen him, and I've definitely seen him angry. "Are you that desperate to die young?"

"You don't even know what they are!" I argue, trying to think of a medical condition he doesn't know of, maybe I've got cancer? No, too depressing, maybe –

"I found out, trust me. Codeine. Painkillers. Did you know that that shit can be fucking addictive? That you can overdose on them, that they're fucking dangerous when mixed with alcohol, that –"

"But they make me feel better!" I snap before I can stop myself. It doesn't appease the thunder in his eyes, but he fucking threw them away and now they're gone, and it takes hassle to organise these things, and who do I know in Tampa? Well, Big Keith, our drum tech from '72, yeah, he could sort it out, but fuck. Fuck. Fucking fucker. "They make me numb," I try to explain desperately. It's not like it's a problem. It's not. And I don't take them for the hell of it either. "It's just that – My left arm never healed from the bus crash properly, alright? It gets sore." I touch my left elbow without meaning to. "I took codeine to get me through recording and now I take it to get through touring. They're just painkillers. I need them."

"You don't need them."

"I do!"

"No –"

"I don't have to fucking feel when I take them! And you just flushed them down, like it's any of your fucking business!" I yell, and the anger in my words surprises me too.

His hands have curled into fists. "You don't want to feel." He shakes his head. "You don't want to fucking feel. You fucking selfish prick. What about me? Huh? What about how I'll feel on the day we find you dead on a hotel bed, having overdosed on your innocent pills and a bottle of whisky? You don't – You don't stop to think, Ryan! It's always about you, and you don't understand how this shit affects me, and I can't spend my days terrified that you'll do something stupid, because you would! Christ, I know that you would!"

"Bren," I manage, trying to interrupt him.

"Shut up!" He throws the pill bottle across the room in magnified anger.

I shut up. I feel like I've just been told that I've been a bad, bad dog. I didn't mean to – It's just something I did, I didn't expect it to – for him to. It wasn't meant to be a big deal.

But it is. To him.

"You're done here! No more of this shit!" he yells, finger pointed at me, and then he seems to run out of breath. His brows knit together as his shoulders drop. He hasn't slept. I notice it then, the bags under his eyes, how exhausted he seems. He turns his back on me, and I watch the line of his shoulders, startled when he seems to shiver. "What would I do if something happened to you?" he asks quietly. "Ryan, what would I do?"

"Hey," I whisper, trying to sound soothing as my insides ache. "C'mere." I press a hand on his shoulder, but he tries to shrug me off. "Bren, come on." I apply more pressure, and he turns around and buries himself in my embrace. He's shivering as I wrap my arms around him, his warmth pressed against my bare chest. "Hey, I'm right here, alright?" He's still breathing fast. I gently rub the back of his neck, my words whispered against his hair. "Okay, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I breathe him in, his scent, take in the way he's wrapped his arms around my waist and is burrowing into me. "I would never do that to you. Bren, I would never." Lying pale and stiff on a hotel bed, my eyes staring at nothing. It's happened to too many to count, people I've known. No. No, that's not what I want. "You're not getting rid of me that easily," I promise him, and he laughs, but it's a small, scared laugh. I didn't mean to scare him. I have. His blunt fingernails dig into my lower back as he holds me tightly. My heart feels heavy. "I'll stop. Won't take them anymore." I don't even have to think about it. "I promise."

"Do you really?"

"Of course I do."

His nose presses against my jaw, his lips brushing against my Adam's apple. "You don't know how scared I get."

"No. No, I don't," I admit because the feeling of surprise lingers. That he cares this much. I always wanted him to, but I didn't know. "It's alright now." My head presses against his, tilting downwards. "We'll be okay."

My lips find his. Soft. Tentative. He lets out an uneven breath. Blinks, eyes wide. A spark runs through me, as strong as it ever has been. He was going to let me kiss him last night, I know it. And now we're here again, far too close for two friends or former lovers, let alone for two men. And I kiss him because there is no way I cannot.

His lower lip slips between mine as I press our mouths together. He doesn't pull back. Instead he lets out this tiny sound, like a quiet murmur of pleasure, a gasp. Hot fire erupts inside, my guts twisting painfully with yearning. His skin is addictive, his touch, his love. I need addictions. I couldn't have him. I found a substitute. It's not unheard of.

But if he lets me back in, then it'll only be an ugly memory. I promise. I swear. Because I don't manage without it, without him. I'm just lost. Angry. Confused. Like an animal forced to leave its turf, thrown into some unknown land, disorientated. I'm not me without him.

I kiss him with clear intent, needing to get closer. His lips part under pressure, and our tongues slowly brush together, wet and hot. He breathes out unevenly, hesitating. I kiss harder, trying to push him over, to make him lose his balance. He bends. He breaks. He pushes closer, opening up further. We kiss fervently, tracing a taste that is so familiar that we could never forget even if we wanted to. My hands move up to his hair, pulling just the way he likes it. He hisses and sucks on my lower lip. It goes straight to my groin. My fingers twist around the strands of his hair, pulling, making him expose his neck as his head turns. My mouth moves to his jaw and his neck, and he breathes hard, letting me. I kiss the vein running on his neck, feeling the fast pulse of it. His stubble scratches my nose, and I feel driven insane by my desire for him.

I push my hips against his. He loses his breath from the contact. His fingers dig into my shoulders. "Stop," he breathes out. I look him in the eye – his blown pupils, fuck – and lean in closer to kiss him despite the warning. "Stop," he repeats, but he's not exactly trying to push me away. I stay still and slowly lick my lower lip as I breathe hard, trying to recompose myself. His cheeks are rosy. I've turned him on. "I've sworn to myself," he whispers feebly.

I lean closer, our foreheads pressing together. I close my eyes. "What?"

What silly, unkeepable promise has he made?

"Not to sleep with you anymore." His voice is husky from even saying it.

Lust pools at the pit of my stomach. Never again? How can he think that we'll never fuck again? Because when he and I fuck, we fuck. Unapologetic and graceless and sweaty. How stupid of him. But for now, for now –

"I can respect that."

He looks surprised. Of course he is.

I swerve in for a kiss, a long, desperate kiss as I push us backwards, until he's pressed to the bathroom wall. He's hesitating, clearly confused, but I merely push my hips against his, leaving no space between. He groans when he feels my erection against him. He's wearing his black bell jeans, the ones that hang way too low on his waist. The denim is thicker than the fabric of my briefs, but the layers working as a barrier don't stop me. I feel him, and he can feel me.

"I get so hard just kissing you," I whisper, my hand at the back of his head. I slowly thrust against him, dragging my crotch over his. My bulge is obvious, the briefs unable to hide it. He shudders and pushes against the pressure. He locks eyes with me, surrendering further, and he kisses me. His hips begin to move, grinding against me. Permission. Admittance. Those things I'm sick of asking for. I wrap my free arm around his lower back and begin to move with him shamelessly. We entwine the best we can.

We pull on each other, throat, earlobe, lips, kissing and tasting, always coming back to kiss with swollen lips. Our hips move fast and hard, thrusting to get friction and pressure. The outline of his cock presses against my erection. "Fuck, you feel that?" I ask, and he nods quickly. "What are you? Come on, say it." I trace his lower lip with my tongue as he tries to speak.

"God, I – Fuck, I'm so hard." He laughs desperately, hissing as our hips move. "God, Ryan." His hand twists in my hair, and our noses press together as he pulls me in for a clumsy kiss. "I can't stop thinking about you."

"Then don't." My hands go to the top of his jeans, trying to unbuckle his belt.

"Ryan."

"I know, I know. I'm not – Just trust me. God, let me feel you," I beg, but he seems to take it as an order.

His chest rises and falls rapidly as he looks down between us. His belt becomes unbuckled, my fingers trembling as I fight with the top button, fingertips grazing his skin, the line of hair in the middle. I manage to get him unzipped. He swears, his body pressed to the wall but his hips pushing forwards. I slowly brush the skin exposed with the pad of my thumb – the bit that is one of my favourite parts of his body. Just there below his navel, where the trail of body hair becomes less soft, becomes shorter, coarser, mixing into his pubic hair. I love that spot. I love kissing it and I love inhaling it and I love the way it feels right now, against my calloused fingertips. Travelling downwards, my fingers brush through dark curls and then get to the base of his fat cock, the skin warm.

He's staying so still. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. I slowly pull his cock out, feeling him hot in my hand. It's not even want that fills every fibre of my being, but need.

"You look so good," I say honestly, the pink, flushed flesh of his cock pressed against my palm. I wrap my fingers around his hard length, keeping the grip loose as I run it from the head to the base. He lets me touch him, size him up like I've never done this before. My hand slips into his underwear and cups his balls. He sighs contentedly and pushes into the touch, his plump lower lip between his teeth. I stroke the skin just behind his balls with a single finger, to watch him jerk and moan. His cock gets even harder, steadily pointing upwards and needing attention. I pull my hand out and focus on stroking him instead.

Jerking him off is hotter than I can stand. He's giving himself away with his gasps, thrusting into the fist of my hand. I squeeze tighter on the upstroke, and soon his crown glistens with clear pre-come. He gasps when my thumb brushes over his slit, spreading the liquid slowly.

"You fucking tease," he hisses. I don't mean to tease – it's just captivating. He kisses me fiercely, his hands skimming down my sides. "Let me see you," he groans, voice low.

"Okay," I rush out, nodding. Fuck.

He pushes my briefs down hastily. His hands first cup my ass, kneading, and my body feels wired up when he lets a finger briefly run over my hole. He soon reaches for the front, my cock now released.

"Jesus," I breathe out when he takes me in his hand. Our foreheads press together. I look down to see him in my hand, and to see myself in his. He's not giving me any mercy, his fingers wrapped around my cock tightly as he's stroking me. My eyelids flutter shut, our uneven breaths filling my ears. Our lips find each other's sporadically, clumsily, the matching rhythms of our hands too distracting. My chest radiates with heat, but it's not just sexual want – it's more than that. A yearning for us to become a part of each other. Then he won't be able to walk away anymore. Then he won't be able to do anything except bend to my will and stay.

I falter when his hand disappears, almost falling against him. The groan I let out is pathetic – please touch me, don't fucking stop – but then I smell the scent of myself, his fingertips under our noses as he licks his palm. His hand hastily moves back down, and fuck, that's even better. My mind spins with desire for him.

"Remember the hotel? Our room?" I prompt, licking my lips. I stroke him faster, every now and then swiping my thumb over the sensitive crown to spread his pre-come.

"Yeah," he replies hoarsely.

"Remember how we'd spend entire afternoons fucking?"

He squeezes my cock tighter in response, nodding. Our hips move restlessly as we try to thrust into each other's hands. He groans, his head tilting backwards. My teeth scrape the skin below his left ear, kissing, tasting. My nose presses against the shell of his ear. "I want to fuck you all night," I whisper.

"It's morning," he corrects but he sounds like he doesn't particularly care.

"Even better. Got all day too." Not going to the venue at all, fuck that – staying here instead, in this same hotel, fucking and fucking, sleeping, then fucking again, kissing the back of his knee as I bend his legs over his stomach.

The wet tip of his cock brushes against my bare stomach. I jerk him off faster, trying to make him lose it. He seems to have the same plan, stroking me faster, flicking his wrist, making my toes curl.

"Fuck, Ry, that's so good," he groans. His brows have knit together and his eyes have screwed shut, and his mouth hangs open as he breathes. It's an almost pained look, but it's pleasure. I let the blunt edge of my nail drag across his glistening tip on the next stroke, and he shudders. Just a bit of pain at the right moment just fucking undoes him. "Shit, you're gonna make me come," he breathes, his free hand in my hair as he pulls me closer.

"That's the idea," I say, my voice lower and huskier. He kisses me, and the strength he puts into it paralyses me. It's a desperate kiss from a desperate man – I recognise it, I give them myself rather often. He swallows hard, his fingernails digging into my scalp.

"Don't stop," he whispers. His hand on my dick has slowed down, and I've forgotten to stroke him altogether. "Ryan, please."

I nudge his nose with my own, getting him to lift his head so that our lips can touch. It's a mere press of our swollen lips together, gentle and soft. My heart is beating heavily in my chest, in a way that makes me feel its fast but still steady thuds in all of my body. I slowly pick up the pace of my hand, and he groans, encouraging. I won't stop. I'll get him off.

I work him up again, which isn't difficult – I focus on ignoring how he keeps touching me, his talented hand knowing just how I like him touching me – and when his breathing begins to hitch in the familiar way of him getting close, I peck his lips once – butterfly light – and sink down onto my knees.

"Fuck, what are you –"

I have to taste him.

My mouth wraps around the tip of his cock, my tongue flattening against the slit. He gasps loudly, the back of his head slamming into the wall with a thud. My hand closes in a fist around the base of his cock, covering a few inches there to keep him steady.

"You don't have to," he breathes, sounding fucking turned on. Of course I don't have to.

My eyes close as I take in as much as I can – not thinking about it or his size, driven only by the want to take him like this. My cheeks hollow as I suck on his length, and his hand comes down to squeeze my shoulder. His hips thrust forwards, like he wants more. I feel my throat tightening first, an instinct to push him out of my mouth. I stop for a second, breathe through my nose, and push the feeling away. Then I relax my jaw and take it. He tastes good on my tongue. He smells good, too. I begin to blow him, working my mouth on him. He's groaning loudly, swearing heavily, trying to keep his hips still. When I look up at him, he's got his eyes closed and one hand in his hair, his mouth open. It's one of the sexiest things I've ever seen, and I suck him hard and watch the way his brows knit together. It's a new kind of power I've never had over him before, my tongue licking the underside of his cock.

"I'm gonna come," he warns. "Fuck, I can't –" His fingers dig into my shoulder. I reach for my own cock with my free hand, fisting myself as I suck him. "Ryan. Ryan!" He sounds frustrated, like he can't handle this right now, like he's trying to fight a losing battle.

I pull back, the weight of his cock on my tongue disappearing. I press a kiss to his leaking crown, wet lips, wet cock, pre-come and saliva mixing, a strand of it stretching from my lower lip as I pull back. Everything is dazed and too hot.

His hand shoots down immediately and he begins to jerk off fervently, his hips thrusting into it. "Fucking hell," he breathes, his movements eased by my spit. He sounds like he feels too good. My fingers dig into his hip, and I touch myself, harder, faster –

"Oh fucking shit," he groans and comes. I haven't moved away much at all, and the first streak hits me on the cheek. It's fucking beautiful. I move back in without meaning to and wrap my mouth around the tip. I've tasted him before – you fuck a guy as often as I've fucked him, you get to know what his come tastes like as a by-product of cleaning your skin or his, of kissing, sucking, it happens – but not like this. His come is bitter and warm on my tongue, and he's still coming. I feel the spurts on my tongue, filling my mouth before I can swallow. His moans have dropped an octave now that I've taken him in my mouth. My balls tighten further, fire curling up in my guts, and I moan with my mouth full of him as I fist my cock.

He's panting when he finally slips out of my mouth. I lean back, swallowing, my mouth feeling used. His taste is all over, penetrating, inescapable. I run my tongue over my teeth, along the insides of my cheeks – him, him, him – and finally come hard, jerking off on my knees in front of him. The world slips into black as pleasure rattles through me, come sliding between my fingers.

I'm almost done when a hand lands on my head, soft and gentle. I try to catch my breath, my body tingling. Fuck. Fuck, we needed this. My hand slowly moves on my cock to milk out the rest of my semen. I look up at him, and our eyes meet. He looks fucked: his hair is a mess and his lips are swollen, his clothes askew, his jeans unzipped, his half-hard cock out. His palm cups my cheek, and his thumb traces the skin. I realise he's wiping away his come on me.

"Jesus," he says in a hoarse voice, a certain softness to it. Then, not nearly as softly but not entirely accusatory either, "Who have you been practising on?"

"No one," I say honestly. He was wrong about practice making someone perfect or the desire of wanting to please. You just have to want it badly enough. Have something to prove or something to lose. He does a small scoff, however, like he doesn't buy that. "No one," I repeat, not wanting to argue. I lean in and slowly trace the head of his softening cock with my tongue. He sharply pulls in air. I let the tip of my nose brush his shaft, smelling him, before tucking him back into his underwear, pulling the fabric over him.

I stand back up, my knees a little weak and my briefs ungracefully down to mid-thigh. I reach for a towel to wipe my come-covered hand. Somehow it's too hard to meet his gaze, although knowing he's now seen me on my knees in front of him, mouth full of his cock, god, that he's seen me like that and that I've let it happen, has warmth spreading at the bottom of my stomach. After my hands are clean, I take a hold of his fly and slowly zip him back up. His breathing is still uneven, and I feel the gaze of his blown pupils on me. I buckle his belt, smoothing over his crotch once I'm done. Like before. Perfect again. He feels a little bit harder than he did a second ago.

"Better than my codeine visions," I joke, but he doesn't look amused. I pull my briefs up for some decency. This shouldn't feel awkward.

He's looking around the bathroom like reality is hitting him hard. His neck and cheeks are rosy, and he has that post-orgasm glow about him. Getting off relaxes him.

The empty codeine bottle has rolled to the foot of the toilet, and though I know there is nothing inside, I yearn for it. But I won't. I promised him.

He rubs his face and laughs. It's not a happy laugh but a desperate one. I'm not surprised. This is what he does: he falls into me and then takes it back again.

"Aren't you supposed to wait at least five minutes before letting the regret settle in?" I ask quietly.

He laughs louder, shaking his head. "But I don't regret it. I don't."

"Right. You'll just pretend it never happened."

"No." He smoothes his shirt slightly in some attempt to hide the telltale signs, but then he gives up. His brown eyes meet mine. "I don't want that either." He sounds anguished for some insane reason. He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. "That was… God, the things you do to me don't have words." My heart swells instantly. A dark cloud appears behind his eyes. "I don't regret it, and that's the worst part. I only feel like shit when I think of what I'm doing to other people."

"You mean Shane," I supply for him. The bathroom feels colder than before. Shane is even here. Omnipresent. Forever a cloud over whatever we do.

"Don't say his name that way." He sounds hurt on his behalf.

"What way am I supposed to say it?"

"I'm the fuck up here. Not him. He's never done a single thing wrong." I'd disagree: he took what was rightfully mine. "Fuck," he sighs like the bigger picture is coming back into view. "You with your pills and your fucking messes, and me here again, and fuck. What am I doing to Shane? Again? I'm such a fuck up. I'm such a fucking fuck up." He seems to be getting himself worked up over this.

"I told you I'm done with codeine," I say quickly so that he doesn't hold that against me.

"You say that, but I don't even know if I trust you," he laughs, and the words cut in deep. Of course he can trust me. I'm the only person he should ever trust. "The thought of… trusting you. Of letting you in fucking terrifies me."

"Why would it scare you?" I ask in confusion, such a thought never having crossed my mind.

"Of course it does," he says, which isn't an answer. What kind of a level of letting me in is this? All the way, which he has never done with anyone in his life? Or keeping me at the fringes, the way he's kept Shane? "Look, I'm... I'm really confused right now." He looks like it. He looks like a man being pulled in two opposite directions.

"Okay," I say soothingly.

"I need to figure things out. About what I - feel and what I want, and - I feel like shit that I did this to Shane yet again. I miss Shane when he's not around, you know? I miss him," he says empathetically like I might not get him otherwise, but I do. I miss Keltie every day. "And I- I miss you." He stops and stares at me like I'm a mirage standing there in the bathroom in pale yellow briefs. "God, I miss you." He exhales heavily. "I'm just really exhausted emotionally, and I just don't know. Now there's all this label business with Columbia, too, and –"

"But you're saying that I've got a shot," I interrupt him because that's what it sounds like. I've got a shot.

"The two of us," he says feebly. "How could that ever work?"

"Amazingly well," I tell him, suddenly full of renewed hope. I've got a shot. He's here, he's not running away, he's acknowledging it. Us. "Can I kiss you? I really want to."

"No."

"We were kissing just before and I sucked your cock, but now I can't kiss you?"

"No."

"That's some fucked up logic you've got there," I say, not even upset, just grinning and feeling light. He laughs, but this is all heavy for him, I can see that. It's draining him and confusing him and keeping him up at night. I get that he feels bad that he'll break Shane's heart, but Shane will get over it. He will.

He says, "I think I need some perspective on things."

"Yeah, absolutely."

"Tour life is always so detached, you know? You don't see the bigger picture."

"I agree." I might be nodding excessively, but every word he says between now and finally giving up the fight and being mine is a word of wisdom that I'll fully support.

"I feel like I don't know what I'm doing."

"I think you're doing it pretty well, whatever it is."

He laughs, and I've got him charmed. Wrapped around my little finger. He's mine now. All –

"That's why it'll be really good to see William when we get to LA, you know? He anchors me a bit. He gives good advice."

William? As in, out of the closet William Beckett who hates my guts and whose last words to me were at the hospital after the bus crash, a mere 'A shame you didn't die'? This is the man who is giving his views on who is more worthy, immaculate Shane or contemptible me?

"…Yeah. Great."

Well.

I'm fucked.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 5: Editing History

Back in 1971, William Beckett got fired from a phone sales company due to his low sales. He had hated the job, anyway, seeing himself as a more rebellious spirit. They had made him wear a tie to the office even though he was on the phone, and he said screw that and screw you, and stopped putting his hair in a ponytail. After that, he managed to get a job as a cleaner in the Winterland Ballroom, a well respected San Francisco venue, but he soon joined their venue staff as a tech. There he befriended a guy called Claudio, who knew tour promoters in LA, from where he had only recently moved to Fog City. Claudio had toured with bands, which William thought sounded like fun, so he asked Claudio to keep him informed.

In late summer 1972, a band called The Followers released their second album and went on tour. They needed roadies, and someone told Claudio, who told William, who expressed interest, and who was consequently hired. We all thought William was a bit of a whiny faggot who could be a laugh but was mostly draining with his impulsive personality and tendency to create drama out of nothing. Still – he was a good roadie and got along with Andy, Zack and Simon. It was a good crew.

Brendon Urie from Here and There, USA, moved to San Francisco in 1972. He had probably heard that it was the haven of homosexuals, and he headed straight to The Castro District and slept with a different guy every night for the first two weeks, partly because he had nowhere to stay and used these men's places as hotels, and partly because the shock of being surrounded by other gay men got him overly excited, but also because he just loved cock. Then he realised he had kind of slept with the hottest guys there, and also that the ugly ones now assumed he was always up for it, and one of his suitors got a bit too touchy once and he kneed him in the balls. My boy's always been fierce.

Brendon was a multi-instrumentalist looking for a job that would somehow relate to music, and so he managed to score a job at the Winterland Ballroom. He swooned over David Bowie and changed guitar strings and scrubbed the dressing room floor, and he met William, who was only a part-timer then because he needed flexibility to go on tour with different bands. The two got along marvellously well and became good friends. Brendon, however, got fired from the venue when his boss discovered that Brendon had helped himself to the till to get the missing rent money he needed for that month. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He's not a thief, he told me that. He is not a thief and that's the only time in his entire life that he's stolen anything. Well. Apart from some clothes and food when he first left home. He's not proud of it either, some kind of Christian 'thou shalt not steal' guilt overshadowing the humiliating memory of him helping himself to a pretty modest fifty bucks.

Now Simon Keith was a big, bearded man, who could play every Hendrix song with his eyes closed, but not behind his back or with his teeth. He was from Missouri, T-total and a good laugh, but back in 1972, he met me, and I introduced him to whisky. He thought it tasted rather nice, and since then he had a bottle of whisky per day. One night in 1974, he and his friend Zack stayed up boozing all night, and in the morning Simon woke up, fell down the stairs and broke his leg just before he was supposed to join The Followers on tour.

The band urgently needed a roadie, and William thought of his friend Brendon, currently unemployed and homeless and permanently homosexual (not that he told us that), and we said sure, and Brendon said sure, having heard our music and not minding it, and besides, San Francisco was starting to feel small and he needed a change of scenery and definitely the money, and everyone said sure sure sure, and then I got on that tour bus one June morning, and there Brendon was, stuffing his bag into his bunk and saying "Hey" like it was no big thing.

But had William Beckett been better at phone sales, or had I respected Simon's refusal to drink alcohol, or had William's friend Claudio never moved to San Francisco, or had Brendon done the Christian thing and not tried stealing fifty bucks from his employer, Brendon and I never would have met, I never would have fallen in love with him, I would probably never even have slept with a man, The Followers might not have ever split up (although that's pushing it), and I never would have fallen out of grace with William Beckett for screwing his friend Brendon around.

And we never would have gotten here: Los Angeles on a bright, sunny morning, standing in the hotel lobby that's full of light, tour passes around our necks and sunglasses covering our eyes, William and Brendon embracing like brothers, and William's eyes landing on me and sending a clear message: you are the enemy.

Shane's next in line, and William hugs Shane long and hard, beaming, ruffling Shane's hair like long lost friends. Shane laughs and talks animatedly. Brendon smiles slightly nervously. I wonder how he's going to break it to William: us.

I asked Brendon in Houston yesterday if he plans to tell William everything now that he seems to have decided that the time to confess is nigh. He said no, that he won't tell William who or when and that William would castrate him for cheating on Shane. He simply plans to say that there is someone else.

I'm the someone else. He is placing me as an option, as something he might choose, and it's the only thing keeping me going.

Three days without codeine.

When I was taking it, my arm felt fine. I also felt nauseous, had headaches, suffered from insomnia and a handful of other side effects that I figured were side effects but couldn't know for sure. Brendon went and did his homework, brought information leaflets from a pharmacy that he's forced me to read. I assured him that I had not at any point suffered from erectile dysfunction, however. Nope, I can get it up just fine.

But now that I'm not taking codeine, I feel more nauseous, the headaches are even worse, I sleep even less, I break out in cold sweat and shiver. Vicky's beside herself, and most of the guys think I've caught a cold. I refuse to see a doctor. It's withdrawal, that's all. It feels like claws are ripping up my insides, and I hate it and want to find more codeine, but then.

I'm an option now.

He keeps checking up on me. Worried. Concerned. But proud that I'm doing it.

William, Shane and Brendon walk over to the band as we check into the hotel. I look like shit although I'm wearing huge sunglasses that try to hide my face – I can see that in William's deprecating gaze, but you know what? Fuck him. He doesn't know anything about Brendon and me, and he certainly knows nothing about me. And when Brendon chooses me, William will just have to deal.

"William," I say as a greeting. "Long time, no see."

"Ryan," he says with a stiff nod.

"What's happenin'?"

He shrugs in an elusive way, folding his arms over his chest.

"Heard you're swinging the other way these days," I note, unable to help it. His eyes flash dangerously, but come on. We all knew he was gay before he did, even when he was trying to screw women. It's funny. There is no way I cannot mock him for it.

"Who is and who isn't," he says pointedly, looking at me sharply. My smile fades. With guys like him around, no wonder there are rumours about me. Fucker.

Shane looks surprised that we're throwing insults out of nowhere. William, of course, has to be in on Brendon's little secret of not telling Shane about The Followers tour and what happened between Brendon and me. Everyone's busy lying to Shane.

Vicky comes back from the desk and hands me my key. I glance at the number, say, "2504. I'm off to take a nap," and leave them to it, my eyes briefly locking with Brendon's.

Were this the good old days, Brendon would take the hint, lose Shane, and soon appear at my door for a pleasant and sweaty afternoon fuck. But that's not happening because he won't even let me kiss him. He barely even touches me – he'll feel my forehead for temperature, but that's it. And the second I try to touch him in return, he recoils, seems confused, makes a quick exit. It's like now he has decided to obtain morals and doesn't want to do anything inappropriate while he remains undecided, like now the cheating would actually be cheating.

Vicky's cancelled all of my previous engagements for today. Our first LA show isn't until tomorrow, and I was supposed to do PR, but my health comes first. She makes sure I go to my hotel room, disconnects the phone, draws the curtains, stays nagging at me as I undress, and only leaves when I push her out of the door.

I hide under the covers, feeling feverish and drained. Maybe Brendon will come check up on me, even though he said that he'd be hanging out with William all day. He's meeting Mark from Columbia tomorrow, and one of Vicky's guys, Carden I think, is flying in from New York to meet Brendon too, to potentially manage him if the two get on. Brendon's nervous about all of it, not sure what to expect. Neither do I – do they want to sign him on the spot or do they want to see what he's got first?

Brendon's life will change tomorrow.

So will mine.

I sleep for seventeen hours, waking up in the middle of the night. I'm covered in cold sweat but finally feel rested. My stomach grumbles. I call room service, but they say that the kitchen is closed. I say I'm Ryan Ross, and they say that a steak dinner will be cooked for me promptly. I say that I'll come down to the breakfast room to eat it, and they say that it's located on the thirty-fifth floor.

I shower and shave, my hand trembling as the razor slides across my cheek. I cut myself twice. I throw clothes on, and it's a bit after four in the morning as I head up to get some kind of food into my system. A chirpy waitress is already expecting me.

It's slightly eerie, sitting in the spacious breakfast room by myself. The sun is coming up between tall skyscrapers of the financial district, hills in the distance lighting up with morning sun. Everything looks official and new. It's weird being in Los Angeles again, but no longer having a place of my own here. Being a visitor someplace that used to be my home.

I'm seated near the entrance to the breakfast room, the remains of a steak and cream potatoes on my plate, and so I hear the sharp "Hey!" clearly. The glass door rattles as William tries to pull it open, but the place isn't officially open yet. The waitress comes rushing to see what the commotion is.

I take my napkin, press it to my lips slowly. William calls out, "Hey! I need to talk to you! Don't you dare ignore me!"

The waitress looks alarmed.

"Let him in," I tell her. Not a deranged fan, but an anti-fan. William clearly needs to get something off his chest, probably how much he despises me. Okay. If that's what needs to be done.

William keeps his head held high when the waitress opens the door, and he marches in like a man coming onto a battlefield. "Sit down," I offer. He looks down his nose at me, but then does. "You want a drink?" He huffs. "Two whiskeys, then."

The waitress nods and hurries off. It's too early to legally be serving alcohol. Laws don't apply to me.

William looks tired. He hasn't gone to bed yet.

"Are you staying at the hotel?" I ask, wondering how he could afford it. The place opened last year and is one of the hippest places we've ever stayed in.

"No. I've been hanging out in Shane and Brendon's room." He says it with emphasis, like he's a news bearer.

"Right."

The whiskeys arrive. He glares at the glass like he doesn't want to take anything from me, but then he downs it in one. He coughs and presses a hand to his throat. "Fuck."

I sip mine slowly. I'm in no rush. That cocky arrogance William had this morning is gone – now he just seems unsettled. Brendon's probably told him of his extramarital thoughts. I hope that he has. He promised me he would.

William's fingers whiten as he squeezes the glass too hard, looking thunderous. "I know it's you."

I look across the table at him. "I'm sorry?"

"Of course it's fucking you," he sighs, leaning back in his chair in defeat. "You just couldn't let him go, could you? And don't think I haven't asked him about it. I have over and over again, all winter and spring, and he's told me you two have nothing to do with each other, and I wanted to believe him, I did, but – All the proof I need is the way he says your damn name." He looks around hopelessly. Brendon's one of his best friends, but the way he hugged Shane showed that he considers Shane to be a friend of his too. And now Brendon's said... I don't know what exactly. That there is an option.

William looks at me long and hard. "Have you two fucked yet?"

I laugh in surprise. "That's really not any of your business." My tone is too defensive even to my own ears. He looks pissed off.

"So you have." He rubs his face tiredly. "Shit." He probably thinks it's a recent development. He has no idea Brendon gave up nearly six months ago, and then again, and again, and again. William leans over the table and looks me straight in the eye. "You have to leave them alone."

And now I'm the home wrecker? Hardly.

"What if Brendon doesn't want to be left alone?"

"He does! You just – You don't get it. You think you can come in and out of his life as you please, but you fuck it up. You fuck him up. Shane on the other hand –"

"Oh, please," I interrupt, because the last thing I need is a rant on Shane's virtues and my vices. "I didn't steal Brendon."

"He can't say no to you. He never could," he says slowly like it's taking extra effort to make me understand this. "Ryan, you fucked him over that summer. You used him and then you just threw him away. Do you have any idea what a mess he was after that? After you? Of course you don't, because you weren't there. Well, I was."

"He left me, not the other way around," I remind him, getting angry of being accused. He's the one who told me to leave, who called me vile and cruel. I offered him the damn world, and that's what I got in return.

"It was the wisest decision he ever made! He'd fallen for you fucking hard, and you treated him like a lap dog," he hisses angrily, and my words of protest die in my throat. My insides feel heavy and paralysed all of a sudden. William stares at me angrily and then with slight disbelief. "You didn't know he was in love with you?"

"He said –" I start, trying to trace ancient memories. He said he was falling in love. Not that he already was. There's a big difference. And what did I know back then? I didn't know that love really existed, and I certainly didn't know that it could exist between two men. I didn't know. He never said. That is not my fault.

"I knew how he felt. I could see it," William muses like he can read Brendon's feelings that easily. I don't think he can. Hindsight is all he's working with, hindsight and the times Brendon's opened up to him. God, what did Brendon say to him back then? Did he really… say that he was… With me? "Brendon knew how he felt about you. And then you just left him. He was homeless and broke, and you just left him in a fucking mess and carried on with your rockstar life. You spat him out and never fucking looked back."

"That's not how it happened. Don't think for a second you know how I felt back then or how I feel now."

"But it's true," he insists. "Shane saved him. What did you do? Nothing. Fucking nothing."

"I'd call 'saving' Brendon slightly dramatised."

"Giving him somewhere to stay, paying off his debts, getting his overly touchy boss off his back and helping him back on his feet? Yeah, maybe I am dramatising it," he says sardonically. He then breaks into a gigantic, sadistic grin when I say nothing in return. When I just stare. "Oh. You had no idea. Why am I not surprised?"

"Brendon's never talked about that time or –"

"Of course not! He's ashamed of it all, isn't he? It killed him to accept Shane's help, but Shane offered. Unconditionally," he adds, like unconditional is something I would never offer. My utter incomprehension must show because he sighs and leans forward. "Look, Pete screwed him over for a breach of contract when he quit before the tour was done, and he only got half of the money he was promised for being a roadie for you guys."

"I never knew that," I say instantly, my mind reeling. Pete Wentz, that cheap fucking git. But it's not just Pete, it's all of this: Brendon never told me. I wouldn't have let that happen to him had I known.

"Of course you didn't know. You didn't care. Just like you didn't care about Andy. We all know you would've gone to jail, driving with that much alcohol in your blood. You nearly killed us all, you selfish fucking prick, and you fucked Andy over when he was made to take the blame for you, and you fucked Brendon over when he'd fallen for you. You didn't steal Brendon from Shane, okay, maybe, but you're his weakness. He can't say no to you, but that doesn't mean he should ever say yes."

Not many men could call me a prick to my face and live to tell the tale. Not many.

I know that Andy took the blame for the bus crash. That was decided on that night, that I hadn't been the one driving. Pete orchestrated it, and Andy got enough money for it to buy a new house. It was fair. It seemed fair. I had been drinking – I couldn't own up to it. Andy was driving too fast, it was raining hard, he lost control of the bus. It happens. We didn't force Andy into admitting it, so how is that my fault?

As for Brendon... He was staying with that creepy faggot that walked around in high heels. He had his bag and a guitar and a mattress. But he didn't care. He chose it over me.

So Pete refused to give him the money he deserved. I didn't know that. I got a lawyer to talk to Pete for me. I didn't want to see my manager again. I didn't know of Brendon's debts, and I didn't know he got stuck in a job with a boss who… The thought of anyone touching him without his consent is enough to fill me with rage, but as far as I can see, none of that is my fault.

But I feel like it is.

"Tell me," I say quietly, my chest constricting. I need to know. Brendon won't tell me, and Shane will wonder if I start asking questions. William knows. "Just fucking tell me."

He seems to consider this awhile, but then nods. Probably knowing that it will be unpleasant for me to hear. "Brendon was in debt even before the tour. Whatever money he made that summer, he spent on paying other people back, but even that didn't cover it all. Terry let him stay with him for a while, and then I let him stay on my couch, but then my landlord threatened me with eviction, so… He slept on people's couches, started working as a bartender. It wasn't enough to pay people back. He was a mess over you. He did the bit where he'd only talk about what an asshole you were, and then he did the bit where he did drugs and slept around, and he did the bit where he was quiet and wouldn't speak to anyone. He'd listen to Boneless when I was out of the house and thought that I didn't know. And he wasn't – He just wasn't getting better. He didn't care, really, about going to work or trying to pay off his debts, which only made it worse with the interests these guys were taking. Not a dangerous crowd, but not pleasant either. Luckily that dodgy guy who ran the club had a soft spot for him. I'm sure he would've been fired otherwise."

I keep telling myself that William is exaggerating this, editing history to guilt trip me. It's working. My throat feels tight, and nausea that isn't connected to my withdrawal is pooling in my guts.

"And then he met Shane, and Shane fell for him instantly. I had to play matchmaker for those two to come together. Brendon didn't want to date people, he was too messed up. When Shane found out about the mess Brendon was in, he offered to take Brendon in. Help him get things sorted. Brendon was running out of friends who'd let him lodge at their places, and he usually paid people for letting him stay, but Shane said he wouldn't charge him a cent. Shane said they could be friends if Brendon wasn't interested. So Brendon moved in, although they hardly knew each other." William smiles obnoxiously when he knowingly adds, "It didn't stay platonic for very long."

For some reason, my jealousy feels worse than it usually is. The thought of that first time together, when I was still so fresh on his mind. If he thought of me. If that's when he started not to think of me. If he did it out of obligation, or was he really attracted to Shane, or was it gratitude or love or –

I didn't steal Brendon from Shane. Shane stole him from me. William's just proven it.

"Shane loves him," William says quietly. "Shane is good for him. Shane doesn't fuck him up. And Brendon's judgement is lacking when it comes to you. He might have forgotten how you used him, but I haven't. And you and I both know how it'd end, with his heart broken yet again. It's inevitable. Do you want to know why?" He stands up, clearly only to create the sense of towering over me. "Because you're a selfish asshole who's never cared about anyone but himself. So do everyone a favour and leave him be."

"I can't," I say simply, trying not to feel insulted that that's what William thinks of me.

"Then I suggest that you figure out how. Because if you care about him at all, you'll put an end to it before it even starts."

Having said his piece, he heads back out.

He's so wrong about all of it. It started years ago, and it's still ongoing. There is no putting an end to it anymore, you can't put an end to something that's infinite.

Maybe William's right about something, though. Maybe Shane fixed Brendon for me. And there's so much Brendon's never told me.

So much he is holding against me.

I almost miss Brendon's meeting with Mark Reynolds of Columbia, who has flown from New York just like Vicky's puppet Carden has. The label doesn't even want to wait for Brendon to get back to NY – they've sent an A&R across the country to speak to him. It's even worse than we thought.

I told Brendon that I'd meet him in the hotel lobby at eleven, that I'd be there to figuratively hold his hand. Even though he is dancing a fine line between avoiding me and looking after me, he still wants me to go with him. The crew thinks I'm being damn nice, Shane's said that I'm such a considerate guy. Vicky, Gabe and Jon have all been giving me looks, like they thought I had given up on that already.

I can't give up on him.

I almost miss the meeting, though.

It's William's fault. William and all the shitty things he said got under my skin. I finally get it: Brendon said he was scared to let me in. William said that he was in love with me. None of that is my fault, but they think it is. I sit in the breakfast room, nursing whiskey and smoking until the waitress kindly tells me that it's six in the morning and that they're opening up for other hotel guests soon.

My first instinct is to find Brendon and tell him how I had nothing to do with what he went through, how I thought he wanted me gone. He's probably still asleep, however, sharing a bed with Shane, no doubt, but as I wander along the corridor, I bump into Jon. Cassie's gone to the hotel gym for a morning workout – Jon looks tired just saying it – and we go to their room, get out guitars and start messing about.

It's also Jon's fault. He doesn't remind me that I have somewhere to be. Neither does Cassie, who doesn't seem pleased to find me jamming with her boyfriend in their hotel room. She changes in the bathroom and says she's going shopping.

And because it's a distraction, I slip into it willingly, not snapping out of it until Gabe and Shane show up. And you'd think that seeing Shane would make the bells go off in my head, but instead I keep thinking of him helping Brendon out over two years ago now. I hear Shane's voice in my head, an assuring 'Look, I just want to help you out. I won't try anything with you. I've got an extra room, we can be friends', and I see Brendon's eyes cast downwards, unsure and humiliated. I wonder who made the first move. Probably Shane. He knew, like I know, that there is no way in hell either one of us could ever be friends with Brendon.

"Shouldn't you be on your way already?" Shane asks as he and Gabe get settled in the room. Gabe snatches my cigarette and guitar and begins to play the intro to Royal Blood.

I wonder if Brendon felt like he had no choice but to begin a relationship with Shane. If that's why he chose Shane: there were no alternatives.

Shane looks concerned. I have no energy to even talk to him.

"Well, since you're here and not there," he says, sounding very confused, "could I finally interview you?"

And as I wonder what 'not there' means, I finally remember where I am meant to be. There. With Brendon. I grab Gabe's arm to check his wristwatch, and it's half past eleven, and no one told me, and it's William's fault, Jon's fault, Cassie's fault, just like the post-tour mess Brendon suffered back in '74 – someone else's fault.

"Oh, fuck," I swear, standing up quickly. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And then I'm out of the room and I'm pressing the elevator arrow going down, and then I give up and decide to take the stairs, go down two floors, realise I still have over twenty to go, and then I try the elevator on another floor, wait impatiently, get inside and press the G button. I'll take a cab, make it just in time, just make sure that he doesn't think I've abandoned him, that he knows I'm not the kind to just throw him to the wolves. And he'll know that I didn't do it on purpose and he'll forgive me, and –

The doors to the lobby open, and I rush out and head for the exit, stopping only when my name gets called. I swirl around and see Brendon with a young guy with dark brown shoulder-long hair. They both look stressed out like they've been waiting. Oh thank god.

I hurry over, trying to catch my breath. "I was just on my way to –"

"I don't care," Brendon says icily. He's dressed up – black slacks instead of jeans, and a maroon dress shirt with a butterfly collar that sits on him perfectly. Probably shopping that he and William did yesterday. "We're late," he says angrily. He doesn't wait for a reply.

Me and the guy with the rock hair follow him out of the hotel. He extends his hand. "Mike Carden from Asher Management. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ross."

"Yeah, sure," I say, ignoring his hand and catching up with Brendon instead. "Listen, Bren –"

"Don't talk to me," he hisses, opening up the back door to a taxi standing outside the hotel. "You can take another one."

Great, now he's pissed off again.

"You take another one," I tell Mike. Mike looks surprised and alarmed because there are no other taxis around, but I only follow Brendon in before his taxi can take off. His eyes flash dangerously when I join him in the backseat, but I lean over to pass the driver some of the bills in my pocket and say a simple, "Drive."

The taxi driver looks at me with wide eyes. "I'll drive you to the fucking moon for that." He takes off.

Brendon's got his arms folded over his chest. I look at him with what I hope are puppy eyes. He doesn't budge.

"I'm really sorry I was late."

"Yeah?" he asks. "We called your room, and we called Vicky, and we're late now because you fucking vanished. Where were you, then? Stocking up on your favourite pain killers, maybe?"

"I was with Jon. You can ask him. And I'm clean. I promised you, remember?"

I'm definitely clean because I feel like shit. I'm no longer tired and I've been fed, but I still feel weak, still start shivering out of nowhere, and I know that the headaches and nausea will last for days if not weeks before I've come out of the woods.

"Don't be mad, Bren," I say quietly because excuses are useless. I'll skip straight to the grovelling. I know I let him down, but I'm here now. He says nothing, his shoulders drawn tight. "It was William's fault. He said all these things –"

"When did you talk to him?" he asks sharply. I've finally gotten his attention.

"This morning. He told me things about that summer. And he told me about you and Shane, back in San Francisco, and I just..." I swallow hard, not knowing where to start. "I'm sorry. Baby, I'm so sorry."

The car comes to a very sudden stop, tires screeching and the both of us falling forwards. The driver's turned around. "You two, get out," he barks. His face is red and he looks furious.

I stare in confusion. "What the fuck?"

"Get out of my cab, faggots," he swears. I stare at the guy in astonishment.

"It takes a man to take a cock," Brendon says like it's an automatic response, and then he flips off the driver and opens his door without arguing further, but I keep staring. The driver throws the money I gave him back at me. Like he won't take it. Like he will not touch faggot money. "Out, do you hear me?" He's middle-aged and has a big moustache, and somehow he distantly looks like my father. "Don't you push me," he threatens when I don't move. People don't treat me like this – they bruise their knees prostrating at the sight of me.

"Fuck you," I hiss angrily. "Your job is to fucking drive, that's it. Now, unless I'm sucking a guy off in your backseat, it's none of your –"

My door gets opened, Brendon grabbing my arm. "Just come on, it's not fucking worth it."

"If I had my gun, boy!" the driver swears.

"You fucking threatening me?" I snarl, but Brendon's pulling me out persistently. I get out and slam the door as hard as I can. The car takes off, speeding, my unwanted money still on the backseat. I stare after it in astonishment. "What a cunt. What a fucking cunt! Didn't he know who I was?"

"We'll get another one," Brendon says dismissively, standing on the edge of the sidewalk on the lookout. The street is relatively quiet, business men types with briefcases hurrying to meetings. "And just a thought – try not to call me baby in the presence of the next driver, alright?" He doesn't sound at all amused.

I scoff. I did not call him baby. Did I? And even if I did, which I didn't, no one has the right to kick me out of their damn car because of it. Brendon's not fazed, however. He's used to this kind of treatment. I'm still trying to come to terms with it as something I'd have to live with, something I'd have to face were I ever to... in some alternative universe where it would be okay to be honest about it. But not this one.

"Okay, I'm sorry. Again. I'm just – William messed me up. He said these things, and –"

"Don't believe a damn word that he says, alright? If you've messed up my chances with that record deal now, I swear to god –"

"They will wait!" I bark. "I'll say that it was my fault, and even some Columbia rep can respect that! Not many guys can walk into a label meeting with the current record chart number one, which you will, so stop worrying about it."

A taxi's coming down the street. Brendon reluctantly drops his arm. His cheeks have blushed slightly. Embarrassment. He exhales shakily, looking uncomfortable.

"Okay. Alright." He fidgets. He never wanted me to know about the things William told me. "What did he tell you?"

"Did Shane really let you move in with him?" I ask. He sighs in a 'here we go' way, but nods, jaw set tight. So that's true. "Did Shane pay off your debts too?" Another nod, more reluctant than the first. Buying Brendon's love and gratitude. So cheap. I've never had to stoop that low. "And did Pete fuck you over with the money?" He nods again. Great… "I never knew Pete fucked you over. If I had, I – I would've told him to give you what was yours. I would have."

"Let bygones be bygones," he mutters, but it's not gone. It's present even now.

"Where did you work after I left?"

"This gay club. Bartending." He shrugs dismissively.

"And did anyone..." I start. This is the hardest question, but it's one that I have to ask. "Did anyone force themselves onto you?" He frowns at my question. "Did anyone ever?"

"No."

"No? Because William said something about that club owner. I would kill him. You know that I would fucking kill him if he had." The anger in my guts is dark, darker than anything I've ever felt. If anyone hurt him like that, if anyone – And I can't even finish the thought, my brain short-circuiting. That part of me is too violent for me to want to connect with.

"You get a lot of arrogant guys in The Castro who think that anyone's up for grabs. You learn to fend for yourself pretty quickly," he says, but he's avoiding my question and knows it. When I don't look away, he sighs. "My boss was a well-known perv who only hired pretty boys and smacked our asses when walking by. He tried to talk me into sucking him off once, that's it. I didn't, for the record," he adds, glancing at me like I could easily believe that he got on his knees for someone like that. "The comments were unpleasant, but I lived with it. William exaggerates, you know that," he says, but do I really? William's been giving me facts. Dramatising them slightly, sure, but they're facts nonetheless. I would not even let suggestive comments slide, if someone came onto him after he's said no. I ignore his 'no's all the time, okay, but that's because he doesn't mean them with me. Because William said it, didn't he? That Brendon doesn't know how to say no to me. And that's because deep down, he doesn't want to.

"I didn't know. I didn't... mean to leave you in a mess like that," I say quietly.

"You were busy crashing the bus and then you took off to England," he says, which accurately recaps what I did. We've never talked about this before, and I've never stopped to wonder if he knew who was driving, but clearly he did – William wouldn't have lied to him about it.

I had to get out. Had to. I'd lost my band and my girlfriend and my best friend and him, and I had no idea why I was still alive. I came close then, before a survival instinct kicked in. I fled. It wasn't dignified, but it saved me. As for him...

"You threw me out, Bren. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me. But if Shane... saved you." The words are bitter on my tongue. "If he saved you, then I owe him for that. Then I'm grateful that he was there for you when I wasn't. And I get that you feel indebted, I get that now. He's done so much for you. He gave you a home, helped you back on your feet. And I get that it's hard for you to walk away from that, that you don't want to seem ungrateful, but... I'm back now. I'm back."

"And you think that's all there is to it?" he laughs.

Yeah. Pretty much.

No one gets through life without breaking someone's heart.

I step closer to him carefully, and he doesn't back away. I'd touch him but we're in public, and he'd shy away from the touch quickly. "If you want me to say that I'm sorry about all of it, then okay: I'm sorry. But I would never do that to you again. I wouldn't."

He stares down at his shoes like he's trying to process my words. "I don't think it's that simple," he says eventually. "I don't feel like... I can trust you."

"Try," I say softly. "I wouldn't let you down again."

He looks unsure, but if he's placed me as an option, like he has admitted that he has, then surely he's slowly beginning to trust me again. I just need to keep proving it. For a day or two longer. God, I'm so sick of waiting.

A cab drives past us but then slows down rapidly. We both tense up. Maybe the fucker went to get his gun.

The back door opens, and Mike gets out. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asks exasperatedly, like he cannot comprehend what is happening at all.

"Our cab broke down," Brendon supplies.

"Well, get in here! We're late!" He motions frantically.

Brendon casts a side glance at me, and I follow him. Figuring out how to feel constant for him, instead of being something that flickers like a mirage in his horizon.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 6: What Drugs Do

Las Vegas, the fictive city of flashing lights, of whores and gamblers and coin slot machines. Las Vegas, where Elvis used to shake his groovy thing but is now rotting away somewhere, rolling in layers of fat and reaching for the syringe with chubby fingers. Las Vegas, the glorious city of short-lived dreams.

The name means The Meadows, which is a laugh. I never saw anything green in the city at all. It's all desert sun and desert air and showgirls and mafia goons, and a young, young me cycling down our shitty street in a shitty neighbourhood to a shitty house and a shitty life.

As the plane lands, it doesn't feel like a homecoming. We're staying in a luxury hotel on The Strip, far from the small suburban houses. I cannot relate to my adolescent self at all.

But it hardly brings me down. If we can slip away, I'll show him all the places and corners and nooks, and that worried smile of his will go away. It's not his fault that Shane got stone drunk that night, throwing Brendon a party in the tour bus, and that Brendon never got to dump him. And it's not his fault that when he tried to talk to Shane yesterday, Shane got upset before Brendon ever even get into the part of him and me.

Shane got riled up right about where he and Brendon cease to exist on record because of Brendon's record deal. Brendon doesn't want the label to know at all – Mike knows because Vicky told him, but apart from Brendon's manager, no one else should ever know that Brendon's gay. Even I thought that Shane would understand, shoving his relationship with Brendon aside to advance his career at every opportunity, but Shane didn't. Something about being cast aside or becoming a nasty secret. And then.

Brendon was leading it into dumping Shane, of course. This is self-evident. But he never got that far.

I love seeing that bruise on Brendon's neck. He can't hide it. He tried the popped collar approach, the scarf approach, pretty sure he put make up over it, but Shane saw it. He saw it, and it fills me with intense joy, even if Brendon claimed that Shane himself left it there – he was just so drunk that he doesn't remember. It was a semi-awkward situation, getting caught eavesdropping in the hotel corridor when Shane stormed out right after that. Shane's eyes met mine – hurt and confusion – and I just asked which floor I was on and walked away.

I don't think Brendon knows if Shane bought it or not. I don't think Shane knows if he bought it or not. And I just and just get that Brendon didn't want to tell Shane the truth of him and me right then and there – maybe that would have been too harsh. There are nicer ways of dumping a boyfriend.

As we get into the limos that are taking us from the airport to the hotel, fans gathered beyond a fence and yelling and waving at us, Shane makes a beeline for the first limo, leaving Brendon behind.

Brendon stops, staring after Shane with a hollow expression, like he's not sure where he's supposed to go.

I know that break-ups are unpleasant, but Brendon needs to make a clean break. It won't be as bad as he's thinking it'll be. He'll see.

Today is the day of all days.

The sun is high up over Vegas, barely noon, and we've arrived. I've come back.

Las Vegas, city of wonders, I'm pleased to meet you. Las Vegas, with your scattered wedding chapels, let me come in because I've got a lover to marry. Las Vegas, let me blind you this time around.

And I'll replace a thousand shitty memories with two good ones.

That's all it'll take.

Brendon looks after Shane's limo like a man watching the last ship to the New World departing. He needs to cheer up.

"Come on," I tell him, nudging him as I pass him. He jerks, looking at me with wide eyes like he didn't realise I was right behind him. He ducks his head, abashed, but follows.

We get in the last limo, Vicky and Gabe already seated on one side. Gabe's nodding off like he was on the plane, having partied all night again. Brendon seems tense, glancing around almost guiltily. I yearn for him.

The car takes off, and Vicky is looking at her diary and reading out my schedule for me, meetings and interviews. Fans bang the windows when we get to the gates, and lights flash even though they can't see us. I relax into the seat, listening to Vicky's monotonous voice absently. I place my hand on Brendon's knee.

Brendon's hand moves over mine, and warmth spreads in me. Small touches, small looks. He lifts my hand off, however, his shoulders tense. I don't let go of his hand, looking at him questioningly, and his eyes dart towards Vicky and Gabe in a 'people, Ryan' way, clearly alarmed.

But doesn't he know that we've moved beyond that now?

A strand of hair has fallen in front of his eyes, and I reach over to brush it aside. His eyes widen in almost horror. "Would you stop?" he asks so quietly that I can barely hear him. Vicky's still reading the timetable aloud.

"Why would I?" I counter, and when he tries to say something in return, I capture his lips in a kiss. He's not expecting it, and he stills perfectly. I kiss him softly, a hey and good morning and goodnight and god, I didn't get to kiss you yesterday. Our noses brush together when I pull back, contentment buzzing in me steadily, filling me with something I don't think I've ever felt: purpose. I wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him slightly closer to me on the seat. He looks startled, and when I find the ability to not gaze at him dreamily, I notice that my manager and a suddenly awake looking Gabe are staring at us.

"What?" I ask. What? Come on, I dare you. What?

"Nothing," Vicky says, but her voice is shrill and her eyes are wide. It occurs to me that it's the first time she's seen Brendon and me actually act on our feelings.

"No, not nothing," Gabe now says, sounding irritated. He looks between us, his brown eyes brooding beneath knitted eyebrows. "I'm sorry, but didn't you guys break up?"

"And aren't you still dating Shane?" Vicky now adds, her disapproval aimed at Brendon.

"I mean, refresh my memory for me – wasn't it supposed to be over?" Gabe goes on, and Vicky nods like the two of them suddenly form a unified front.

Who remembers the past? It's all gone now. No, no, we're not remembering those things.

"Fuck," Brendon breathes out, barely audibly.

"We had a misunderstanding. Now back off," I bark, annoyed that they're getting to my boy, who's now as stiff as a board and is intently staring at his shoes with reddened cheeks. Vicky and Gabe exchange long looks, saying silent words I can't even begin to imagine. "Also, make Jon do the last of my interviews. I want to show Bren around Vegas."

Vicky looks annoyed further, but I stare her down. She better do what I say if she knows what's good for her.

Brendon glances at me. "So Vicky knows too, huh?"

"Of course I know," Vicky cuts in. "I'm not fucking stupid."

"Hey, I told you to lay off," I tell my manager, who lifts her hands defensively and rolls her eyes. Brendon's worrying on his bottom lip. My gaze fixes on it for a second – god, his lips – but then I smile at him warmly. "Get used to it. Soon enough a handful of our friends will know."

"Oh," Vicky says. "Is it going to be official?" Something in her tone is mocking, and I shoot daggers at her. "Shouldn't someone, you know, tell Shane?"

"That'll be a fun rest of the tour," Gabe mutters, sinking into his seat lifelessly.

"Shane will probably quit," I say, which he probably will. I don't care. I really don't. "And this is where you two don't say another word. It only concerns us."

"But it affects all of us," Vicky says sternly, but she doesn't criticise further. I know Brendon and I have been a mess, I know that I've been a mess. But I'm still off codeine, still feeling like shit, but it's getting better all the time. It's worth it. It's really worth it.

Brendon's deadly silent, and fuck those two for being cunts to him.

"Well," Gabe says eventually. His smile looks forced. "Congratulations, Brendon. Looks like you've won the grand prize."

Brendon flinches and says nothing. Vicky drops her gaze and stares at her knees. Brendon is nervously picking on a loose thread on his pants.

I smile broadly. "Not like there was ever any competition, right?"

Brendon stills when I briefly brush his hair, and Vicky and Gabe both look away.

I order myself a black coffee and light a cigarette. I'm allowed to smoke here now. It's not called Eddie's anymore and it's no longer in the outskirts of Downtown, but rather it's become a part of it and is called Luck Café or something along the lines to fit the overall theme of gambling.

I'll show him Downtown first – the first bar I got into, the first alleyway I got a blowjob in when I was sixteen. I don't know why this suddenly feels important, to show him these places that I haven't thought of since I left.

But that's why. If I pass them on, they won't haunt me anymore.

He's the only person who needs to understand where I'm coming from.

The girl brings me my cup of coffee. I look out of the window and impatiently wait for Brendon to show up, keeping my eye on the taxis. I was late coming here because of boring interviews, and he is even later. I haven't talked to him since this morning, but I assume that Vicky called the arena like I told her to. He and I have hardly had exclusive time since the second night in LA. I can't stop thinking about it. About him.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I smile into my cup of coffee. These are the days to be alive, my friend, my city, my life.

I keep smoking languidly, then a bit less languidly, then anxiously, then a bit more anxiously. I get the feeling I'm being stood up when my coffee's gone and my cigarette's a stub. Maybe Vicky messed it up somehow, gave the wrong address. Maybe she did it out of spite. I didn't know the café had changed its name. We used to come in here every Friday for a milkshake.

I look around the place in boredom and then stop. We used to sit over there, in that corner booth. Where that man is now sitting, reading a newspaper. He's wearing a yellow t-shirt and has hair that's this very, very specific brown colour – not as dark as Brendon's but clearly darker than mine, this exact shade, and he's hunched over the paper in this specific way, and it's a dozen déjà vus in a single frame. He turns a page and looks up briefly. He stills.

We stare at each other from across the café. I don't know what to do. What do I do? Do I get up and leave? Do I pretend I haven't seen him? He might not recognise me – big sunglasses, always good to keep them on.

"Ryan?" he asks, voice sounding faint

Too late now. Too late to run for it. He's recognised me. Of course he has.

"Uh. Hey." I lift my hand and take my sunglasses off with the other. He looks surprised. I expect that I mirror him there.

"Hey."

I hesitate for a second, but having a conversation across the café seems like a stupid idea. I stand up and walk over to him, and he sits up straighter, eyes on me, and then he stands up when I get there. He's grown a moustache since the last time – when was the last time? The hospital? No. When he came to pick up some of his stuff from my place because Cincinnati was far away and he wouldn't be back anytime soon? I think so. There is something so familiar to his face and eyes and mouth, all belonging to some long forgotten world of small venues and small crowds and not getting recognised and drinking with my band – my best friends – until sunrise. He's an apparition of an old life in the city where I once lived.

"Hi," I repeat, stupidly.

He says, "Hey."

We stare, it's awkward, and then – then he breaks into a smile. And he's got these smiles, these icebreaking flashes of white teeth. And I smile back because fuck, fucking hell, and I laugh out of embarrassment, and he grins, and I grin, and then we hug. He pats my back and says, "Still a skinny fucking thing, aren't you?"

"One of us needs to be," I return because domestic life has seen him gaining on a bit. We let each other go, but he keeps a hand on my shoulder, looking pleasantly surprised. I try to get over how surreal this feels, but I'm not asleep and I'm not on drugs, so this is actually happening. "Fuck, what are you doing here?" I ask because I did not expect him to be in Las Vegas, let alone in our old café.

"Visiting Mom," he says, now letting me go, and I follow his lead as he sits down.

"Yeah?" I ask eagerly, suddenly so interested in everything that he has been up to all this time. "Fuck. How is Ginger? Haven't seen her in years."

He smiles. "She's good."

"Yeah? Good. That's good." I laugh nervously. "Still hates my guts?"

"You'd think that," he says, smirking, "but she gets excited whenever she hears your name on the radio. She's gotten kind of nostalgic with old age, even if she persists that you ruined me and, what is it... stole my youth, yeah. That's what she says."

"That's far out," I laugh. I then add, "I'm here to play a show," to explain my own presence.

"Yeah, I know. Got a ticket."

He does? "You don't need a ticket," I say, the thought of him acquiring one baffling me. "You could've just called me."

"I don't have your number," he says, and that's when the first layer of boyish excitement wears off. He doesn't sound accusatory, more factual, and that's worse because it's the truth. Of course he doesn't have my number. I don't have his either. He didn't even leave an address when he left for Cincinnati, and I didn't go to any particular lengths to give out my address to my former friends when I bought my SoHo apartment. We consciously disappeared from each other's lives. He said that he wasn't my friend anymore. His exact words. He seems to be remembering these unpleasantries too as he quickly says, "Well, you look good."

"You look old."

"Look who's talking," he smirks, but that's bullshit, I don't look a day over twenty-one. "I didn't think I'd see you here," he says, motioning around. "I thought you'd be hanging out at some private party with famous people."

"Maybe I am," I say, and I don't mean to be kissing his ass but he is one of the best drummers of our generation. What is he doing in this café? It's out of his way if he's staying with his mother. Nostalgia. Maybe. Nostalgia has brought us both down to this old damn place on the same day at the same time. Now that's not fate – it's pure chance. But it's very, very rare pure chance. "I could be at some party," I then amend. "You know how it is, constant invitations flowing in. Busy, busy. Life's great, really. Never been this rich or famous." I sound like an asshole, but I don't want him thinking I'm the mess that I was the last time he saw me. I survived, I prevailed, even without his help. He just gets this look on his face, and it's his 'those things don't measure up a good life' look, the one he gave Joe or Brent when they raved on about fame being happiness. But he should not for a second think that my life is anything but amazing.

"Were you going to tell me you'd be coming to the show?" I then ask.

"Probably not."

"Why not?"

He shrugs. "In case you'd tell me to fuck off. Who knows? Just wanted to check out the new band, you know? Didn't want it to be this thing."

The thought of him coming to the show and leaving just as silently hurts somehow. Like he's allowed to do that, check up on me, get glimpses of me, but I don't get to do that in return. That's not fair.

"I'm just curious, man," he then says like he needs to explain it. "Clearly it's going alright." He eyes the tour pass hanging around my neck.

"Yeah, sold out shows and all. Europe next month."

"And the band?"

"The band's superb."

"And the album's number one. Well done."

I cannot tell for sure if he's sincere or not.

"Thanks." I want to ask him if he liked it, but then don't. I wrote a few songs about him, and at least one made the album. Again I'm left wondering how obvious the lyrics were. The conversation seems to die a little then, and I have nothing to do with my hands so I keep them by the table, feeling too official. "You can come backstage tonight, meet the guys," I offer. "If you're not busy. I was planning to do a little Vegas tour with Bren before heading to the venue, but I think I've been stood up."

His eyebrows lift in surprise. "Bren as in Brendon?" he clarifies, and of course he wouldn't know about that or any of it. He didn't approve of it back then either.

"Yeah."

"Wow," he says, trying to take this in. I can tell that he's got so many questions running through his head, and I wonder where I'd even start. "So he's still around, huh?"

I don't mind telling it to Vicky or Gabe or any of those guys about Brendon and me – that's just how things are and they better deal with it or fuck off – but Spencer. Spencer, Spencer, Spencer. He's different. His condemnation bears weight. It always did. And I feel reluctant and nervous when I say, "Brendon is still around, yeah." And to throw in the ultimatum, "And he is going to be around."

He stares at the table hard. "Last I heard you were dating a dancer."

"She danced away."

A quick glance at me. "And you dance both ways?"

I try to keep my calm. What if he gets up and leaves? What if he...?

"These days, yeah."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

He taps the table without realising it. A drummer's rhythm. "I gotta admit, that's still weird to me, man. We spent hours obsessing over chicks when we were kids, you know? Talk about the ideal girl and how we'd like to get some, and when we were getting some we'd talk about how we were getting it, girls in different shapes and sizes. I was so used to you being this certain way, you know? Still am. Thought maybe it was just a phase or just him."

"I thought the same thing about your wife," I counter, my eyes landing on the wedding band on his left ring finger. I wonder if he has more kids. What if he and Haley have had more kids, and I haven't even known? I should know something like that. I should know if Spencer Smith becomes a father, but I wouldn't have known these past few years, and that's his fault. That's my fault. I bet our younger selves wouldn't have seen that one coming. "How old is your kid now?"

"Suzie just turned three." He smiles a shy but proud smile. He doesn't mention any other kids. Good. Neither does he pull out a picture from his wallet or babble about how well she can speak these days. Also good. I thought he wouldn't shut up about Suzie once I mentioned her, but instead he asks, "So when did you get back in touch with Brendon, then?"

Clearly he thinks this takes priority.

"Late last year."

"And you guys...?" He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Yeah. We're kind of great, actually." And the second I say it, I realise it's true. We are. It's all lined up for the future – he'll tour with me, I'll tour with him, we'll figure it out. And I must get this stupid smile on my face because Spencer looks slightly flabbergasted and then laughs disbelievingly. But not in a deprecating way.

"Well... that's. That's good. I guess." He smiles slightly. A ton of weight gets lifted off of me. I'm not sure if what he's showing is approval but it is acceptance, and I've been standing still for two years waiting for it. Ever since he had a go at me and told me it was sick. That I was sick because of it. But I could make a long list of all the shitty things I've said to him in return, and maybe that plus a long, long silence makes us roughly even. "Looks like you've got your life sorted out," he says before staring at me evenly. "So how long are you in town for?"

"Not long at all. We're leaving for Phoenix tomorrow morning."

He hums, nodding. He gets this serious look on his face, the one he always used for bad news. "So don't you think there's someone you should go see?"

Turns out that he's still not sick of playing my conscience.

"I don't want to do this," I tell him. "This is pointless. This is useless."

It is, too. What will this prove? That I'm the bigger person or that I'm a masochist?

He pushes me in further regardless, and I get swallowed up by the white walls and white floors. I feel sick. It's withdrawal, I tell myself, my good old friend withdrawal and nothing else.

"You can do it," he says, prepping me like a coach. The middle-aged woman behind the desk looks at me. I've stuffed my hands into my pockets and have my shoulders hunched. People are coughing in the corridors, sneezing and spreading germs.

"Can I help you?" she asks impatiently. Spencer keeps hovering over my shoulder.

He's somewhere in this building. Somewhere above those floors. I wasn't supposed to be coming back. I did the walking away, remember? Not me. No, no, you wouldn't see me. My boots were made for walking.

Maybe it's time I show him just how far away I walked. Maybe Spencer is right: this is something that's long overdue.

"I'm looking for George Ross Junior."

The receptionist opens up a thick book, finger pressed to the page, and starts going through a long list of names. She flips through a few pages and then comes to a stop. "Ah." She looks up. "And you are?"

"George Ross III."

She looks surprised, and I feel equally foreign and out of place.

When we get to the right floor, Spencer points to a waiting area and says that he'll be there. He gives my shoulder a squeeze, but it's easy for him. It's not his father, it's not the life he refused to live.

The corridor feels like the longest one I have ever seen. An ache spreads from my chest to all of my bones, an uncomfortable, restless feeling. I haven't seen him in seven years now. I preferred it that way.

What do I say?

There is nothing I can say.

Some doors are open, showing patients lying in bed, some of them looking deader than others. There's a smell in the air – pills and urine and bleach – unpleasant and making me want to run the other way. When I get to the right door, it's closed. I stand outside it, looking around me. An empty gurney is standing not too far from me, pushed against the wall. A nurse is walking at the other end of the corridor in a white dress and a white hat, looking professional. I push my sunglasses into my breast pocket. Card my hair slightly. Check my breath out of habit – god forbid if I smoked or drank, god forbid. He gave me hell for that, confiscated my beer and helped himself to it.

I open the door to a small hospital room.

A man is lying on the bed. Not even a man but a body. A body with greying hair and puffy red cheeks. A tamed lion.

It's not what I expect. I was expecting something more... powerful. Something less pathetic. Something, someone, with a lot of guts.

Not an old man dying in a hospital bed.

I expect to be noticed, but I'm not. Nothing new there. I walk in, leaving the door ajar to have an escape plan if need be, if he's just pretending to be this frail thing and is about to launch on me. A steady beeping sounds from the machines around his bed. He's got his eyes closed. He's lying in an unnatural way, his arms straight on his sides on top of the covers. His chest rises and falls. A tube is going into his mouth.

He looks small. He's just vanished somehow. He's lost so much weight that it's hard to recognise him, hard to connect this feeble man with the towering presence of the father of my youth. There are no flowers in his room, the way there were in some of the other rooms. I expected his room to be bigger. I'm paying for him to have a room to himself, aren't I? I thought it'd be bigger. I thought he'd be smoking cigarettes and boozing it up and harassing the nurses and laughing on his way to hell.

I didn't realise. I didn't think.

Hey, what do you know? He's really dying.

A single chair is by his bed, and I sit down and exhale. The beeping continues. Every four seconds. Beep – two – three – four –

Beep – two – three – four –

Beep – two – three – four –

"Hey." No reaction. "Can you hear me?"

I watch his face intently. He's clean shaven, which is another first. I'm used to a bushy moustache on his upper lip. I guess they keep him shaved here. They bathe him and they dress him and they make sure he pisses and shits. All that wrath in him, all of it. He was just talk. All talk.

It's taken me nearly twenty-six years to realise this.

"I guess it's good someone's finally gagged you," I say, almost to test him because this is the point where he'd tell me to mind my words, boy. But he remains unmoving.

I lean back in the chair, keeping my eyes on him. "You're not so scary now, you know that? You're really not. You're just rotting away in here. Hardly recognise you." I look around the room for some sign of his belongings, for a fleeting second thinking that maybe I'll find a framed picture of him when he was younger, of him and a little boy. But it isn't there. Of course not. People like him don't change just because they're dying. "I'm on a world tour. Wasn't stupid after all, was it, my music obsession? I've seen so much more than you ever did. You're not even fifty-five and you're dying. How's that? Huh? How's that for you? What did you ever do?" I stop as if to wait for an answer that I'll never get. I laugh. "Fuck... What am I doing? You can't even hear me. This was Spencer's idea. I wouldn't have come otherwise. I'm too busy for you, I don't –"

"Excuse me?" a curious female voice asks from behind me.

I twist my head around to see a young nurse by the door. "Yeah?"

She smiles nervously with a frown on her face. "Are you in the right room, sir?"

I blink. "Yes."

She's surprised, just like the woman downstairs was. "Oh. Right. He just – He just doesn't get many visitors. Or... any visitors." She looks at me with interest, and then her eyes widen slightly. I've been recognised. Great. Suppose she'll want me to sign something for her. "Are you his son?" she asks disbelievingly. Oh. Am I? My confusion seems to show because she says, "You've got the same eyes."

Oh.

"Yeah."

"He's never mentioned a son," she says and then looks embarrassed. Yeah, that's not something you should say to the only living relative, is it? That you've never even been mentioned. Doesn't matter how often my name spills from other people's lips, he'll be damned to utter my name. "I, uh. I'll let you be, then –"

"Hang on. Why does he..." I motion at Dad vaguely. "That tube down his mouth. What's that for? And can he hear me? I mean, is he aware at all?"

"I can ask the doctor to –"

"You tell me. I'm on a tight schedule here, I don't have time to wait for doctors."

She hesitates but then steps inside further. "He had another heart attack last week. He's been on life support ever since. The chemotherapy had left him weak so the heart attack had severe effects. He comes around sometimes. He can't communicate, but we try to make him as comfortable as we can." She has a sympathetic tone that seeks to comfort me.

"How long?"

Her brows knit together. "I'm sorry?"

"How long until he finally dies?" I clarify impatiently.

She pales slightly. "I really shouldn't –"

"In your professional opinion, how long until he's singing to the angels?" I then chuckle. "Although he'd be lucky to get there. I'd say he's going the other way."

She blinks. "Erm. I think... he might have two more weeks."

Two weeks. I'll be in England by then. I'll be on tour when he dies. Don't expect me to take time off, old man, or to come to your funeral. I have people who can arrange all of that.

It's a shame. I can admit that. It's a shame he and I never saw eye to eye on anything, that we couldn't be friends or even family. But then it's not. He's a cunt. He always was and always will be, and I will not turn him into some kind of misunderstood antihero in my head just because he's about to go. As far as I'm concerned, he's been dead for years. He left a bruise on my jaw. I left a bruise on his cheek.

What a wasted life it has been.

"Let me get the doctor for you," the nurse says.

I stand up and shake my head. "No. That's alright. I have somewhere to be. I –"

Dad opens his eyes. His gaze is out of focus at first, brown eyes – apparently the same colour as mine – staring at the wall, then the window, blinking. Confused. Beep – two – three – four. He looks at me. He stops.

Beep – two – three – four.

I expect something to happen, for that machine showing his heart rate to suddenly beepbeepbeep, for him to reach out a shaking hand. But nothing happens.

I don't even know if he recognises me, but his gaze focuses on me.

"I have to go," I tell him, the nurse, both of them. I tell him just in case he didn't know that already, but I think he has known it. When I left nearly a decade ago, we both knew it was inevitable, that it was something that the both of us needed. The only thing we ever agreed on was to keep away from each other. He blinks slowly. He doesn't look at her. He looks at me. And I swear that even with that tube down his throat, even when he's stuck in that bed, when he's been broken and humiliated, he looks disappointed. He manages to look at me with disappointment.

"I have to go," I repeat, and the nurse asks me to wait but I hurry out of the room, down the corridor, hurried steps to get away from his death.

Spencer's in the waiting room, and he stands up when he sees me coming.

"What a fucking brilliant idea this was," I tell him, heading for the elevator and pressing and pressing and pressing the down button until the elevator arrives.

"Was he awake?" he asks, sounding concerned.

"I don't even know, man. I don't fucking care." The two of us get in. I press the ground floor button fervently. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I slump against the wall, my eyes closed, fuck fuck fuck – "Fuck!" I yell and slam the wall. My palm stings like a bitch and my eyes water – from the pain, that's it, and I wipe the corners of my eyes and feel stupid and like I'm twelve and what if he didn't even recognise me? What if he did, and I let him win by showing up? Was that his final disappointment, that I wasn't man enough to let him die without seeing him one more time?

I could never win with him.

I could fucking never.

"He couldn't speak. He had one of those tubes down his mouth." I laugh. "That's funny, right? The last chance for us to – to ever speak, and he's fucked himself up so bad that he can't even manage that. What a fuck up he is. What a mess." I hang my head. "He looked so old, Spence, he looked so fucking... human." I wipe my eyes quickly and pull in a rattled breath. "My album's number one. I get recognised in the streets all the time. I matter, you know? And he – That fucking..." I swallow hard. "No wonder I've been such a mess, you know? You get an upbringing like he offered, you end up kind of fucked up. Look at your mom, managing to raise you and the twins on her own even though she worked two jobs, and she loved you, she hates me because she loves you, and it shows. It shows.´"

He's remained quiet and has kept staring at the floor. Something's off.

"Spence?"

"Does it show? I mean... Yeah, your dad was an asshole, but you've turned out alright. You've got your band and your fame and your health and, hell, you've got a boyfriend or whatever he is. You're all settled. Whereas me? I'm still living off of Followers royalties. I'm not visiting my Mom, I'm fucking living with her, have been for the past month since my wife kicked me out of our damn house, and I wasn't even there for my girl's third birthday." He shakes his head. "How does my decent life show there?"

I stare at him in utter confusion as his slice of domestic Cincinnati heaven, the one he's been living in my head, crumbles. "What?"

He looks up with sad blue eyes. "Haley's filing for a divorce."

Oh.

"Oh." I try to calm down from my sudden breakdown. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," he says quietly, and I feel oddly numb. They're divorcing. I knew it'd never last, so why am I so surprised? "Christ," he swears. "I'm not a drummer, soon I won't be a husband, and truth be told I'm not that great of a father. I'm almost twenty-five, but feel like I'm forty, and I feel like a fuck up, regardless of my childhood. You've got it figured out, man. I haven't even started."

"Well," I say at length, trying to process all of this. "I got addicted to painkillers."

"Yeah?" he asks, tone almost hopeful.

"Yeah. And my band's great, but they don't – It's a job. You know? Whereas the four of us, even if it got shot to shit, we lived it. And Brendon, well – We had an affair, and technically he's still dating this guy who's doing a documentary on the band, so that's another mess in itself, and when he left me for a while, I instantly resorted to booze and drugs and not giving a crap about myself, just like my old man did back in the day. Blood. You can't fight blood. And I just saw my dad for the first time in seven years, and I hate him. I fucking despise the living shit out of him."

"Wow."

"Yeah," I say, taking a deep breath. "So I don't think I've got it figured out either, man. But maybe that's not a bad thing. If you and I had life figured out at this point in life, what would the next thirty, forty or even fifty years be for?"

He chuckles sadly just as the doors open to the ground floor. "Yeah. Yeah, maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right," I say with as much cockiness as I can muster, to try and heal up our bruised dreams. "I'm a prophet, or have you not been reading my reviews?"

We chuckle together, and we almost manage to hide the pain for a while. It's a talent, certainly, being on the top of the world and still feeling like a reject and a failure.

We were always made of the same spirit, Spence and me.

"So you want me to take you to a strip club or something?" I offer. He looks at me disbelievingly.

We're kind of drunk by the time we get to the venue, and we're also out of small bills. But those girls earned it – come on, they definitely earned it. And like I said, there's no harm in looking. Spencer's going to be a free man, and I never thought that Haley was that pretty, anyway, so he needs to know what kind of fish swim in the metaphorical sea.

He just needs to forget for one night. Have a good time. Marriages fail all the time. Especially if you only marry her because you knocked her up.

I just need to forget for one night. Have a good time. Families fail all the time. Especially if you only have a weak link of an ejaculation connecting you.

And so I put one family to die and make plans to create a whole new one. Spencer can be in it. We're cackling over stupid shit when we get to the convention centre, ten minutes before I'm due to go on. I did call from the club to let Vicky know that I was alive. I'm a good boy, aware of the leash on me.

Spencer smoothes the backstage sticker that's now stuck to his t-shirt. Someone's bringing me my stage jacket, someone's shoving the set list at me, and someone else is leading us to the stage. Spencer keeps saying how it feels like the old days – well, the venue is bigger than what he's used to, but – and he looks at all the people running around us and shakes his head.

"Was it always this crazy?" he asks.

"Probably," I snicker, pleasantly stoned. "It's hard to judge when I'm a part of the circus."

The guys already are at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the stage. The crowd is chanting and cheering and whooing and stomping. I don't need to make any introductions because the second the guys see Spencer, they all stand a bit straighter. Patrick calls him 'Mister Smith'.

"So you're my replacement, huh?" Spencer asks Patrick, who blushes and stutters and takes the hand Spencer offers.

"He is," I cut in.

He really actually is.

Spencer glances at me like I'm being mean. I grin back.

"Hope you enjoy the show, man," I tell him, looking around impatiently to spot my manager, who I soon see talking into one of those modern walkie-talkies – only the size of a bulky book. Crazy shit. I excuse myself and head over quickly before we go on stage. I already told Vicky on the phone that Spencer was with me, and that it was her job to make sure Spencer gets anything and everything he wants: girls, drugs, girls. I never underestimate the therapeutic power of a rebound fuck.

Vicky sees me coming, and she tries to smile kindly but I can tell that she's furious that I disappeared for hours without telling her where I even went. "Nice of you to show up," she hisses.

"I'm on time," I say in my defence. It's been a rough day, an exhausting day – she would know, actually, the hospital bills go through her, but I don't want to talk about it with her. It's been a rough day but we're going to turn it around, so she could stop with the bitch act and smile already. "So what happened to Brendon?" I ask. "He never showed up at the café. I don't see him anywhere."

I miss him. It's stupid because I saw him this morning, and I briefly talked to him yesterday, and I've kept seeing him, but it's – God, it's not enough. It hasn't been enough. I come up with all kinds of little things to miss all the time, like that small mole on his lower back or the way he moves his fingers or his even breaths when he sleeps, it's stupid, so stupid and so consuming, and I love every second of it.

I've never felt this way about him before.

Well, I have. I probably have. But it was always confused and muddled, and people were in the way.

Not anymore.

Vicky clears her throat slightly. "Well. I called here earlier to pass on the message, but. There was some drama, so." She shrugs.

"Drama?"

She looks like she doesn't want to say but then concedes. "Brendon and Shane fighting. Apparently in front of everyone, I don't know, maybe they broke up or something. I guess that's your doing, huh?" I don't know if she tries to sound pissed off or supportive, but I hear 'they broke up', and I string those three words together, and my chest expands and light fills up the universe. I open my mouth, but she says, "I really don't know. Don't ask me, I wasn't here. Someone said that Shane went back to the hotel, and the film crew guys have gone out gambling until bus call. I don't know where Brendon is, and it doesn't matter right now because you need to get on stage."

"Sure thing," I say, winking at her. Sure, sure thing. Fuck.

Finally.

Shane, of course, objected to being dumped, and Brendon said quite firmly that no, no, it's over now, it's all over, in front of everyone, and they all know now.

Today's the day to make him mine.

Vicky has to push me to the stairs that lead up to the stage, and Spencer's behind me. It's weird that he doesn't follow me on stage, confusing and unsettling, but he just smiles as he stays by the side, perhaps slightly subdued, and the lights are in my face and it's hard to see and the crowd screams and it's hard to hear.

I punch the air as a sign of my victory – and I'm pleasantly drunk, so – grab the microphone and say, "Hey Vegas, I used to live here." They cheer louder. The guitar tech hands me a guitar and rushes off stage. I look to the floor to the taped setlist, find out what we're doing, and the thousands cheer, and I laugh, feeling miles away from the boy at the hospital today.

That's not who I am anymore.

Behold, behold.

I press the right pedal on the floor, and all bets are off.

The ninety-minute set flies by, and I steadily drink beer. The alcohol hits me harder than it usually would, and maybe that's due to my body being tired from the codeine and the lack thereof. I keep looking to the side of the stage to Spencer for validation, which he gives me, smiling, nodding to the beat; looking for Brendon, who isn't here so where is he? At the hotel, gathering his stuff from his and Shane's former hotel room? That. I like that. I've got a big bed, we can share it.

He must be fucking happy to be free of that old ball and chain.

God, I'll cover him in a thousand kisses when I see him.

When we leave the stage after the encore, Spencer says, "You guys do a tight live set."

"Thanks, man, thanks. We try."

I'm surprised to realise that my left arm doesn't feel too sore. A bit tingly, but there is no actual pain like I thought there would be. Like maybe I made that bit up to justify the pills.

Well.

Well, well, well. Aren't we just learning so much about ourselves today?

"You enjoyed yourself out there," Spencer adds in an oddly hollow voice. I did. Hell. I suppose I did. But it's a special night tonight.

"Come on, we'll drop by the hotel and grab Brendon, and we'll go out. Take Vegas by storm."

"I don't know if –"

"Spence, come on. I'll be gone tomorrow."

The second I say it, I realise it's true. I'm just passing through. But I don't mean this to be a one-night-stand, if he and I could have one platonically speaking. I'll give him my phone number. Fate didn't bring us together – we did. Yeah, I'll give him my number. Or have Vicky give it to him. He can come to New York and stay with Brendon and me while this divorce business of his is taking place.

Spencer stays in the hotel reception to call his mother that he won't be coming home anytime soon while I quickly go up to my room. It's close to midnight, and I'm drenched from the show but have no time to shower. I change shirts in my hotel room, and then call reception to ask if any messages have been left for me. None have been. I ask for Brendon and Shane's room number, and they put me through but no one picks up, and I spray some cologne on, buzzed, and head out to their room in slight annoyance because Brendon and I should be celebrating by now.

A 'Do Not Disturb' sign hangs on the doorknob of their room, but I will disturb, thank you very much. And when I do, the door inches forwards, not even locked. Thanks for the invitation there, door.

"Hello?" I ask, walking in. The room is smaller and plainer than mine, so it's easy to spot Brendon sitting on the edge of the double bed. A fluttery sensation buzzes in my guts. Funny that the light isn't on, so I switch it on for him. "Hey. Hi." Hey, gorgeous. Hey, hey, hey. "I've been looking for you." The sudden overflow of love and affection and want would be sickening if I weren't the one feeling it. "Vicky gave me the news," I tell him with a big grin, slightly confused by him not moving or even acknowledging me, but sitting still like a statue. "We should go out to celebrate. You seen Spencer yet? Spencer's here, my Spencer. We've been hanging out the entire day."

I sound happy but then it hasn't been that happy, and I've wanted to talk to him ever since the hospital. He understands these things, he is bound to have good advice. He'll understand what it felt like.

"God, it's been a fucked up day," I sigh. "So much I need to tell you. Spencer's wife's left him for starters. We went to this strip club, I thought it'd cheer him up."

He finally looks up at me, and I laugh. "Don't you worry, hey, I've only got eyes for you." I sit down next to him on the bed. "There was this one girl with these hips like yours, though. God, it made me hard watching her. Just wanted to find you and fuck you," I purr, leaning in to bite his earlobe, nuzzle him, ravish him, laugh into his hair. But he pulls back in what is clearly rejection.

I frown, trying to comprehend this unexpected move. "Hey." I look at him – properly, at last.

The dozens of butterflies fluttering about get massacred in one short second.

He's been crying. His eyes are red and puffy, and his cheeks still look wet. He doesn't cry. I've never seen him cry fully, anyway, but he clearly has, big, fat, breath-rattling tears. He's been here, crying.

A sharp pain twists my insides. "Hey, hey, hey," I rush out soothingly, moving closer, a hand instantly moving to his hair as I feel too worried to breathe. He flinches at my touch, tensing up instead of relaxing into it. "Talk to me."

He takes in a sharp, uneven breath. He wipes his cheeks and blinks hard like he might start crying again. He's staring at his knees, apathetic. When he speaks, he becomes misery: "I think he's going to leave me."

I stare. "Shane?" I clarify, and he gives me the smallest of nods. Okay. Sure. "Well... yeah," I say, trying not to add 'are you stupid?' He's not stupid, of course not. "How did you think he'd react when you told him about us?"

"I didn't," he corrects, and suddenly I'm the one who's stupid. But Vicky said... I mean. "I told him about- about my childhood. I told him about my dad. I told him that nothing I ever told him was true," he says, letting out an anguished laugh. "He'd find that out, were I to get famous, and I wanted him to hear it from me, you know? I wanted to – be honest with him. But he got so mad, Ry. He got so mad." He shakes his head and looks around the room. "I didn't realise..."

I follow his gaze, and all of these obvious things are now coming into focus, things I somehow missed when I sauntered in. Like the fact that the room is a mess and that their shit is everywhere – not in that absent kind of careless way, but in a shit-has-been-thrown-around way. Like maybe Shane... I can't imagine him throwing shit around, let alone showing balls of any kind.

Maybe that's why Brendon's upset. He wasn't expecting Shane to blow up at him.

"So he left you," I say, trying to figure it out. Brendon told him about his lies, and Shane left him. "Well... that's good. You didn't even have to be the bad guy." It's actually kind of genius, but Brendon pulls in a rattled breath like he's about to burst into tears. My baby doesn't cry. "We can – We can lay low for a while and then, say, a month from now we can tell a select few that we're together," I say in confusion, trying to get him to cheer up already. "We don't have to tell him about us or our past. If you don't want to hurt him or something."

"But I have," he says instantly. "I already have." And he begins pulling in air sharply, almost hyperventilating.

"Hey, calm down." I try to hug him, but he doesn't want to be hugged, pulling away from me instead with a shake of the head. "Baby, what's the matter? This is what we wanted."

"No," he says sternly. "It's what you wanted. Not me. I didn't want this."

"I know it feels bad right now, but we can be together now, we can –"

"Stop," he says, shaking his head more vigorously.

"But –"

"Stop it!" He seems angry, dangerous flashes of hurt in his brown eyes. "You think I can just do this to Shane and not look back? Vicky and Gabe were right, I've made such a fool out of him. I've humiliated him. And now it's all a mess, and you didn't see how hurt he got, how upset he was." He sounds angry at himself more than me. "God, everything's so wrong. I have to talk to him. I have to set things right." His tone sounds desperate and urgent.

"But they are right," I argue in utter confusion.

"They're not. They're really not." He stands up, wiping his cheeks once more, trying to pull himself together. His hands drop to his sides, and he breathes in deep, and he doesn't look at me but beyond me somehow, like he's seeing me in a different place than where I am. "I can't handle this. Every time you- you kiss me or touch me, or even look at me, I can't deal with it. I just can't do this. I'm sorry."

It's funny, what happens right then. Like the world just ceases to exist for a few seconds. Like there's nothing. Nothing but soaring black.

"...What?"

"And I'm sorry if I've led you on," he then adds, like he's listing things, things that have been on his mind while he was sitting here in the dark. He won't look at me. "But I can't." He looks pained.

"But why?" I ask, my voice trembling. His words make no sense to me.

"Because we'd…" He pauses. Yeah. Yeah, there is no adequate explanation. "We'd crash and burn, you know that we would. It's like a drug, what you and I are feeling. And yeah, it's powerful and all-consuming, and it's addictive. But it wears off. It'll stop getting us high, and it will tear us apart instead because that's what drugs do. It's not real."

That's not what he's supposed to say. That's not what he's supposed to even think. "We're not a... temporary high," I say in utter confusion. "We're real. We're –"

"There is no we!" he then barks, sounding frustrated, transforming from something to protect into something to protect myself from. "You keep doing these crazy things like sweet-talking to me in a cab or kissing me in front of your friends, and you just – don't get that people like us can't do those things! No matter how famous you are! And what do you think is going to happen next? I leave Shane, and we live happily ever after? Like it's that easy? You said it yourself, Shane will probably quit, so I break his heart and ruin his career, and just walk away? This is killing me! I can't just not care for Shane anymore! You keep expecting things, you keep saying these things, but your idea of real is nobody else's idea of real, and you've never understood that!"

"I keep expecting things because you give me reason to," I say quietly, anger suddenly emerging at the pit of my stomach. Maybe I have gotten carried away with my feelings for him. Maybe. But I can't help it, god, when I see him, I just can't help touching him. And he thinks that's a bad thing.

"I know I've led you on," he says again, looking guilty. "But I make mistakes, Ryan. That's what I do. I make one mistake after another, and I didn't – I didn't mean to make you think that we... I just wasn't sure." He's trying so fucking hard not to look at me right now. "You were like my codeine, I just had to get more."

"You're comparing me to something that could've killed me. How is that fair?"

"Because everything I feel is amplified with you," he says, sounding like he's speaking from experience. He is. We both know that he is. The good is so fucking good, and the bad is... destructive. He whispers, "Shane's been the only good thing that's ever happened to me."

"That's not true," I say, standing up. "That's not how you feel," I insist stubbornly, desperately, trying to believe I'm even hearing this. And I can't. We've been through this already, we've walked away because it was wrong or something else as ridiculous, and where did we end up? Back in each other's arms, that's where. So we know now. We know that this is where we're meant to be, that it's not something we can fight. "You think you should feel like Shane's it because of what William said, but you know that's not true. Don't let other people make you feel guilty about us. About what you feel. I know how you feel. And the other day, in my hotel room in LA, when we – I could feel you shaking after we were done," I say quietly, the memory of it too intimate to even repeat to him, but I will if I have to. The sex was intense. God, it's never been that intense. He looks lost and embarrassed, but he doesn't have to be with me. If what we feel gets to him that hard, that it leaves him shaking, that it makes him cry, then that's fine, and I'll never tell anyone. If it cuts in too deep, then I'll be there to tell him how much it scares me, like it scares him. We're in it together.

"That –" he begins and stops, voice shaking. He doesn't have the words. I was there, he can't fool me. He wipes his cheeks quickly, still looking guilty, so damn guilty.

"You tell me that wasn't real, that what we felt is something that can just wear off." The thought is ridiculous and insulting. How dare he?

"Sex isn't love."

"Making love is love."

"Don't –"

"Don't what? What?" I interrupt him, staring him down. "How can you say we're a mistake? God, when I look at you, I can barely breathe!" I exclaim in desperation. "It's you. Brendon, it's you." It always has been, and I'm slowly realising that. "And now you're backing out? And for what? Because it got too real for you, because you feel bad? Sometimes you have to trample on others to get what you want! Shane's fucking insignificant, he's –"

His expression changes from intimidated and confused to being very clearly defensive and foreboding. I'm not winning. I'm not –

I take a deep breath and try to keep myself together, trying not to panic and drown and burn and crash and bang and smoke. "You're scared. That's what it is, you're scared," I rush out, nodding too much. That has to be it. "Shane's left you, and so you feel guilty. You've been with him for so long, so I get that that change is scary for you, but you gotta trust me on this one. You have to." It sounds like a plea from a desperate man being dragged towards the guillotine.

"But you didn't see how hurt Shane was, you didn't –"

"I don't care how hurt he was!" I spit as the sickening truth slowly dawns on me, that he is not going to change his mind. That he wants to fix things with Shane. All of this, all this time, everything he and I have ever done, and when he's finally supposed to be mine, he pulls back from the ledge. And I just don't know why. "I've waited, so I get to be selfish now! Fuck Shane! Fuck him, and fuck you two, and fuck it all!"

"You have to understand –"

"You don't get to break my heart and expect me to take it fucking gracefully!" I yell, feeling the bloody pieces exploding inside my chest until nothing remains except a painful emptiness where something used to be.

My boy's so beautiful when he's drawn in on himself, his sorry, reddened eyes staring at me soulfully. He's so beautiful that it kills me.

"I'm sorry," he says, and then, "I'm so sorry." His eyes are full of remorse and pity, like that's supposed to make it better, like that fixes it somehow. "I wish things hadn't gone this far, I –"

"No, that's not good enough. You can't do this to me!"

I feel everything fall apart. He takes cautious steps back – I'm not the first man today to start having a go at him in this hotel room, but I just and just manage not to start throwing shit around in primitive rage. I pull on my hair and I swear and I clench my fists, but I don't do it out of hate. "Why are you doing this to us?" I ask desperately. Every word and action seems to have the opposite effect of pushing him away from me rather than pulling him in. That's not what I –

I could never win with him either.

I could fucking never.

My hands are shaking, an adrenalin rush coursing through my veins. He looks alarmed. Scared. Reserved. Distant. Having made up his mind.

Now he's made it up.

"Things are never easy with us," he says slowly. "It'd blow up in our faces so quickly, Ry. And after the number I've pulled on Shane, I have to make that better. I'm too much of a mess to just jump from one bed to another, and –"

"Funny how being a slut has never stopped you before," I growl, thinking of the numerous times he's writhed beneath me, boyfriend or no boyfriend waiting. Excuses. Excuses, excuses, excuses.

He stares at me for a second, and then laughs disbelievingly, but mostly he looks like I've just slapped him and the laugh is a poor attempt to hide the pain. "And yeah. Then we'd hurt each other because that's what we do best."

I bite on my tongue. God, I'm an idiot, and god no, baby, I would never hurt you, I wouldn't, I swear, I just fuck things up because I'm the product of fucked up people. You should've seen him today. This isn't my fault.

He and I could make each other better. I'm a better person with him around, can't he see that?

I say, "Hey, come on, I didn't mean that, I'm sorry, I –"

"No, you meant it." He wipes his cheeks again – and were those tears caused by me? Not Shane, but me? I don't want to – I just. It's not coming out right. "So maybe you can't... see it now," he says at length. He nods as if to convince us both. "But one day you'll be see that I was right."

But there never will be such a day.

Because he walks out of the room, to find Shane, to break someone else's heart, to busy himself not choosing me, and he leaves me.

He leaves me.

And not like he did back in the day when he told me that I was vile and cruel, and not like he did when we told each other it was over earlier this year, making out in a hotel corridor, clutching onto each other too hard, trying to convince each other that we didn't feel what we obviously felt.

He just doesn't choose me. It's that simple.

He is just too good a person to love me.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 7: Love, Imagined

This is not me sitting at the bar, knocking back shots. This is some other person.

And me, I'm in my hotel room, making love to the one person who has ever mattered.

This is a caricature of me, crude and wrong.

This is what dying feels like. Right this.

And my caricature finds out that not everything is free.

The game is called 'How Many Free Drinks Can We Get in Vegas Bars?', and it's plenty, as it turns out. A lot of, "Mr. Ross, that's on the house," and I say thanks, that's very kind, or merci, should I say, or danke or arigato or kiitos, and they say that it's no problem at all. The kinder they are to me, showing that artificial celebrity adoration, the worse it feels. After one round of free drinks, we move onto the next bar. We get free cigarettes and cocktails and whisky and wine, and Gabe's off his face quickly.

We stop to do business with a guy who's standing idly in a street corner, trying to look non-conspicuous.

That does cost us something.

Gabe thinks it's hilarious, all of it, and the harder he laughs, the harder it is for it to sink in. That lump in my throat, that sharp pain in my chest isn't real. I'm on top of the world, so no, it can't be real, it didn't happen. It was imagined.

I refuse it to be real.

Eventually we settle in a deserted and godforsaken bar near closing time. Gabe goes into the bathroom and comes back out looking as high as a kite. He spots a pretty brunette at the bar and heads over to her instead of coming back to our table. I can't look at that initial contact, its warmth.

It's realer than it should be.

Spencer sits across from me, and I feel like I'm being scrutinised and pitied. This is the first bar where we've managed to not attract too much attention. Spencer hasn't been drinking since the show a lifetime ago, last night, hell, fucking six hours. But I've been drinking, I've been having fun, so much fun. Not anything weighing me down.

"You always take things too hard," Spencer now says quietly, watching me take another shot. "The rare times you're happy, you're happy, and when you're sad, you're really fucking sad."

"I don't know what you mean." My voice has an alcohol burn to it. I can't. I won't. Although he knows. He saw me in that first stage of shock at the hotel, so he knows, but that didn't actually happen.

Because if it did, there's nothing. There's just – nothing.

"Look," he sighs, "Brendon –"

I flinch at his name, and the wave of heat flashing inside is immediate. It burns to kill.

"Don't," I stop him, holding the shot glass in my fingers, dangling it. "I can't."

I close my eyes and see him, and I hear his voice and his laughter and the way he says my name when he smiles, and the way he says my name when he comes, and the way he says my name when he refuses me. And there's so much joy there and so much love, and then there's just –

Nothing.

And the horror of that realisation is trying to catch up with me, but I'm trying to outrun it.

But the water is retreating from the beach, is getting sucked back into the ocean, and that's a sign of a tidal wave, and when the wave comes, it will take the memory of him and me and Florida and the stars with it. But as I wait for that, I can still feel like I'm on top of the world. Nothing can touch me, I'm Ryan Ross, so nothing and no one, certainly not –

Can't even think his name.

I stare into space, my chest feeling constricted. It'll hit me and tear me to pieces.

And because I know it's coming, we bought two bags off that guy standing idly in a street corner. Gabe's used his, and mine is in my back pocket. Spencer knows this. I know it.

Codeine kept the pain away, kept me numb, helped me balance the line between escapism and reality, but now that line will be white, white, white if I want it to be. I try to keep away from the hard shit. I've seen it turn people's brains into jelly after years of use. But I also know that unlike codeine, which still kept me intact and which wouldn't let me forget, something illegal will blur reality for me, will bend it to my will.

Will transform me into someone else.

"I know that it hurts right now," Spencer says, like now we're talking about this, whether I like it or not. "When Haley dropped the news, I spent two days drinking, so I get what you're trying to do." Like their relationship can be compared to mine somehow. Like his youthful infatuation can be compared to Brendon and me in any way or form. This isn't something to just get over or accept or say, 'Guess we grew apart'. "You have to think of the future, man. I do it for Suzie, you know?"

"And who do I do it for?" I ask. Why would I try?

"For yourself." He leans over the table, looking stern. "You saw your old man yesterday, you saw what he did to himself. You don't want to go down that same road, Ryan."

But maybe I do.

Maybe my old man had it figured out, and I hated him all this time for being smarter than me.

"Love is a tricky thing," he says, and I can tell that he's launching into a speech. But really? It's 'tricky'? That's all he's fucking got?

He's never loved.

His story is four in the morning and sobering up and tired. He talks, trying to give me some insight, and I try so hard to focus on his words. He says he doesn't know at what point she stopped being happy. Things weren't perfect, he knew that, and maybe it stopped working because he wasn't happy. Nothing to do with her or their little girl – it was him. He just wasn't a suburban husband, and eventually she began to hate him for it.

His sentences are full of sighs and pauses and, "I never cheated on her, man, I never," and "Well, except that one time but –"

Forbidden kisses.

Suddenly, our life flashes before my eyes, the one I made up for us: our love, imagined. Full of tours and best kept secrets and music business bullshit and staying in different addresses but always sleeping in the same bed by the end of it.

And now it's gone. It never even was.

Nothing Spencer says relates to me, although he tries with some poor ideas of not all couples being meant to be even if we think so.

"And I love her," he eventually sighs, staring at the mouth of his beer bottle, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. "But I don't think I'm in love with her anymore. You know? And it took me a while to realise that. Maybe with time you'll realise that about Brendon. You don't want to be with someone who doesn't return your feelings. Trust me, I know."

"But he has to feel this," I say silently, staring at the table, eyes fixed to one spot. He has to. I know he's never said it, but we don't need to say it like normal human beings do. He doesn't need to say it because I know. I thought I knew. But if he felt this, there would be no competition. If he felt this, he would not have been able to walk away.

So he never felt it.

And that's when the inexplicable pain rips my insides apart, that's when the tidal wave comes in. But where's the knife? Where's the wound? I look fine on the outside, can walk down the street like I'm just one of them, but I'm screaming, still screaming, they just can't hear it, and he...

"Why didn't he choose me?" I ask quietly, my voice breaking. In my head, I've yelled it and I've cursed it and I've seethed it and I've screamed it, but now all that's left is a soft fucking question. "I know I'm not perfect, I know that I've... I've done a lot of wrong." I glance at Spencer because he's had a front row seat to so many of the shitty things I've done. "But I don't understand why. I thought we wanted this. I thought we..." And then I stop, wiping my cheeks with shaking hands. Not in public, some part of my brain tells me, the one clinging to dignity, but such luxuries have long been lost.

I take in a rattling breath, and my eyes feel wet even as I try to dry them. Spencer looks like he doesn't know what to do. Neither do I.

How could he let me in like that and then just push me back out?

"You're better off without him, man."

"But I'm not."

And this is not like those other times when I knew that he'd come back to me. Something about this one feels more final. Feels like it's over. And I can drink myself to a stupor, but then tomorrow it won't be any different, and not the day after that, and he won't be there anymore, and I miss him, I can't not be with him, and I want him to go to hell. And Shane, that fucking Shane, I can't –

"I'm gonna beat up that fucking Shane Valdes. I'm gonna motherfucking beat him to a pulp, and then we'll see who's laughing." And then I laugh, my knuckles dripping blood, I see it happening, blood, blood, blood, and no. No.

Brendon would rush to his aid, pushing me aside.

I've lost.

But I can't. I can't breathe. I can't think.

"I feel like I'm falling apart," I manage. "I keep- keep thinking it didn't happen. That I made it up. Because I can't be without him, Spencer, I don't know how to be without him. I don't know how, I don't –" I cover my mouth, shaking, trying to breathe, my vision blurred.

"Ryan?" he asks, tone alarmed, and then he speaks but I can't make it out.

I'm dying.

I swear that I'm dying.

I wipe my cheeks again, but it's useless, and I stand up and dig into my back pocket with trembling fingers.

He doesn't try to stop me as I head to the bathroom to take a trip to a place where I don't love Brendon anymore, where all of this ceases to exist.

Where I cease to exist.

I vomit by the side of the highway, trying to make it all stop, trying to get it all out. I claw at my skin and breathe in the morning air. It won't go. My limbs feel heavy, and my insides are tiny insects crawling all over.

"You okay, man?" Gabe asks, the car door open. He's leaning into the backseat drunkenly. I close my eyes and sway slightly. Too much of everything. Not enough.

A single Joshua tree breaks the horizon of the desert. Morning, Arizona.

"'m fine."

I head back over to the car, crawling over him and crashing onto the backseat. I keep my feet in his lap. He chuckles at nothing, head lolled to one side. I wash my mouth with beer. God, this is all one big joke.

We ran out of gas before Phoenix, but we'll fix that when the drugs wear off. If they do. If we live. For now, passing out in the backseat of Spencer's mom's car seems like a good idea, like I'm back in 1968 and none of us have ever gotten our hearts broken. We have never loved.

The spinning won't stop.

Sleep and alcohol and the waning effects of cocaine weigh down on me, but my senses are on full alert, tingling, thoughts and colours and heat flashes, and my mind is reeling. I can't stop my thoughts. I can't stop myself.

Spencer's sleeping at the front. Someone sober had to drive. We were... heading to Phoenix. Yeah. That plane, man, I don't wanna be on that plane, the fucking forty minutes that the flight would take. Brendon. God, his name, and his touch, I can't get it out of my system, I can't seem to be able to sweat him out.

"Bren," I say, repeating the name floating in the air. And then, "Bren." And his fucking lies and games and treacherous kisses.

"Yeah, man. Exactly," Gabe agrees.

Bren, Bren, Bren.

"What if," I laugh desperately, "what if he is making up with Shane right now? What if they're fucking fucking? I can't, I can't." I rub my face, visions flashing in front of my eyes, and I hear his voice and I hear his groans, but not real, not real, that's just what I took, what we took again in the gas station at the state line. Seemed like such a good idea.

"Don't think of that, man."

But Gabe doesn't understand. I don't have the words to describe the way I feel, how it's thick, black liquid dripping inside me. How I want to scream until my voice is gone, how I want to trash the car, how dark it is, how angry I am, and Bren, Bren, Bren, my Bren, why would you do this to me, baby?

Spencer was right. I take things too hard. I take things too close to the heart.

But I'll push Brendon out like he did with me. If it's that easy, which he's shown it to be. So fucking easy.

I'll show him.

"And even if he were fucking Shane," Gabe then amends, "what do you care, hermano? You could have anyone in the woooorld." He makes a broad arch with his hand and then chuckles. Yeah. I like that. Maybe I can just say that I didn't want Brendon anymore. Shane can have my leftovers. What the fuck do I care?

Gabe squeezes my ankle fraternally, smiling down at me. "I'm glad to have you back, man. He always messed you up. You're better off like this."

"But it was such a wonderful mess," I sigh, and it was. It was the most perfect mess. "Maybe I'll get myself a boyfriend. Piss him off. I'll start dating Bowie."

Gabe snickers, and I laugh out loud, obnoxiously, trying to be, but then it fades into trying to be funny when it's not, when I want no one except him. No one. Why can't I feel anything for anyone except him?

I'll get Audrey to come on tour, I'll propose to Keltie, I'll reconnect with Jac, I'll have a lover for every finger, and they will love me, they will all love me.

And I won't love him. That manipulative fucker, probably only used me for a record deal, me and my stupid crush, how it must have fucking amused him, and even if – even if that had been the case, then god I don't care, I just want him back, I just –

"Ry, hey," Gabe says soothingly, and I realise I've started hyperventilating. I wipe my cheeks – no, we're done with that bit, he's not worth it, I decided on that, he's just some stupid boy with a stupid smile. I shake my head and pull myself to sit up. Sunshine is coming in through the slightly dirty windshield, and the highway is getting busier now that morning's here.

"I can have anyone, right?" I ask him.

"Of course you can."

I exhale shakily, wipe my cheeks again. "Okay."

I scramble over to Gabe, straddling him on the backseat. He looks confused and drunken, and I kiss him. He stills, and my cheeks feel wet and my heart feels heavy. It's brief but forceful, and I pull back with a smack and stare at him. Something. Anything. God, I have to feel something.

"...Okay," he says, voice breathy. He looks dazed and stares at my lips with dark eyes.

There.

I kiss him again, and he exhales and fists the front of my shirt. We fall into it. Trucks go by, Spencer's asleep in the front, and we make out in the back, and every kiss feels poisonous but I don't care. His reaction is immediate and stronger than I thought, and I can work with this, I can slip into this.

I grind against him, and he hisses. "Ryan, fuck." I suck on his lower lip, bite down, hurt him, and he tastes all wrong. He's getting hard. That makes one of us.

His mouth moves to my neck when I pull back for air. His hands are on me, so hungry, something that makes me think he's been patiently waiting for his turn. I close my eyes, focus on the press of lips on my throat, the scrape of teeth and stubble, and then – then I feel something. A spark in my chest. That particular kiss, that particular second, he felt just like –

"Ry, fucking hell, this is so –"

"Could you not speak?" I ask impatiently. That's not helping. That's ruining the illusion.

He stops with his groping and grinding and breathes hard against my Adam's apple. He then pulls back, slumping into the backseat. He gazes at me with blown pupils, not doing anything. He looks lost, frowning.

"What?" I ask, licking my lips, a foreign taste on them.

"This..." he begins and rubs his face. He shakes his head and laughs desperately. "God, this is not how I thought this'd be."

"Does it matter?"

His hand drops from his face. "Yes. Of course it fucking matters." He bucks his hips to escape from beneath me, and I let him go as I slide back to my seat. He gets out of the car quickly, hands in his hair, having a crisis or something that looks like a crisis. The alcohol is welling in my stomach, burning, making me feel sick.

I close my eyes, and the memory of him is still there, this random time in our hotel room, and how we had stupid sex – it was just that, stupid, we kept laughing, and he kept squirming, saying he was feeling ticklish, and we almost fell off the bed, and he just – god, he was clutching onto me, laughing against my neck, and that –

It was such a fleeting moment that now feels like a dream.

That moment was everything.

I didn't imagine it. I could not have.

And that means that he felt it too, but he's choosing not to acknowledge it. He is choosing not to feel it.

And that's even worse.

Gabe looks into the backseat and says, "I'm gonna get us gas or something." He averts his gaze, his lips still reddened, the outline of his cock still visible. He looks like a deer in headlights, unnerved and fidgeting. Should I feel shame? I don't. I don't care. I could have him, I could have anyone, and I'd deserve it.

"Sure."

He's quick to leave.

I fall onto the hotel bed like a sack of concrete. Vicky's heaving, having helped me. There were fans waiting outside. Vicky had to support me. It was funny. I lost my sunglasses in the mess.

"Hey, I'll play the show," I tell her before she can even start. I didn't take off to some random direction, did I? No. Headed to Phoenix for the show. I'm fucking dedicated. I'm a fucking professional. "I fucking will. Don't you worry. Where'd we park the car? I don't remember where we parked the car."

"Fuck you, Ryan Ross," she snaps.

"Don't be like that, Vicky," I say tiredly. I fell asleep in the car for a while, but this reality isn't any better. "I thought you were on my side."

"You never disappear on me like that! Is that understood?" she barks, and all this yelling is giving me a headache.

"Where's Spencer? Where's Gabe?"

She sighs exaggeratedly. "Spencer got himself a room to catch sleep before he drives back to Vegas, and Gabe's passed out in the car. I thought I'd deal with you first."

"Oh."

I close my eyes and focus on breathing. It's been such a blurred few hours. She sits down on the bed, and I feel her eyes on me, taking me in carefully. "Ryan," she says, but now it's a soft tone, and it fills me with dread. I preferred the yelling. "When Gabe called me from the gas station, he told me what happened last night." I don't want to hear whatever she's got to say. "Look, I'm sorry. He pulled a number on you, I get that."

"I don't wanna hear it."

I don't want to think about it or feel it or acknowledge it. I'm so fucking sick of it.

"No, listen. You're on tour, so you gotta keep it together. You can mourn later. There are bigger things at stake here."

"I'm fine!" I snap, but my voice breaks and it's her fault for reminding me of it.

"Ryan," she says again, in this sad pity tone. "We'll send Brendon and Shane both home, alright? Shane can pull a documentary out of what he's got. You need the distance, it's not good for you to be around Brendon right now."

She's being practical about this, clinical. Like removing Brendon from close proximity will help, like he's a tumour that can be cut out and removed and forgotten. But he isn't.

"But if we send him home, he's gone." Irrevocably gone. And maybe that'll be better, maybe that'll lessen the pain, but then – How can I just let him go? Will it be better to see him with Shane and slowly go insane than to never see him again? Because there is no world where he doesn't exist. Where he is a thing of the past.

I built us an entire future in my head.

"Did he and Shane make up last night?" I ask quietly. Did they have a romantic Las Vegas reunion after he walked out on me?

"I don't know. Everyone panicked when you disappeared, so I really don't know. I didn't see either of them last night." Her voice is softer now, comforting. But their disappearance means that they probably were together, and Brendon seduced Shane, because Brendon's good at that. Seducing people.

Now there's a boy who can get what he wants.

And I fell for it.

"You want me to be honest?" she asks, and no, I don't. "It seems to me that you cared more for him than he did for you. So you think about that."

She's lying. That's not true. She's just jealous, like she always was.

She smoothes my hair motherly and then stands up. "Get some rest and don't leave this room. I'll pick you up before the show."

She heads for the bedroom door, leaving me to lie on the bed, the ceiling as my friend, coming in and out of view. "I almost slept with Gabe," I blurt out into the room.

Her footsteps stop. I wait. Smile sadistically.

"How fucking fantastic for you two," she then says, tone as cold as ice. She slams the door shut after herself, and I chuckle against a pillow when I hear the hotel room door close in the other room. God, all these strings are too easy to pull and jerk. It's the most fun I've ever had.

I kick my shoes off, snuggle into the warmth of the bed, still laughing, finding it so funny, and her words too. That I was running after Brendon, who reluctantly let himself be caught. Is that really how it was?

Is that... really how it was?

As that disgusting thought eats its way inside me, I shiver on the bed, my stomach churning. I can't sleep, but I'm under house arrest.

I find the minibar in the next room and place all the tiny bottles in a row on the coffee table. So, so pretty, and I put them alphabetically, place them in a pretty order. I'm not stopping yet, this is just the start.

One minute I recall all those small, intimate moments with him, when I was convinced that we loved each other, and the next I recall all those small, intimate moments with him, when he turned away too quickly.

And the more I think about it, the angrier I get.

Maybe Vicky's right, maybe I gave more, but that's because I knew it'd take more time for him to come around. I gave more to tell him that it was okay to feel what we felt. He needed time. He was confused. He was scared. So I gave and I gave, and he fell into me more and more, so it only made sense to assume that... he'd fall completely. Like I had.

It was a fair assumption.

And then he takes it all back.

How dare he fucking do that to me?

The minibar collection is pathetic. I pick up the phone and call the reception. "Yeah, it's room, uh... I don't. I don't know what room I'm in. What? It's – Oh, right, yeah, I see it, okay." I peer at the three digits that are on the sticker on the phone. "Six... four... seven. And I need more –" A knock on the door. "Oh, you're already here. Quick service, thanks." I put the phone down, pleased. At least something works around here.

But when I open the door, it's the man who ruined my life.

His existence feels like a punch in the guts.

"So you are awake," he says in this angry tone that he's never used before because why would he be angry? Why would he be when he's got my man? "Hope your disappearing act with Spencer did you good."

He walks into the room, carrying a large, black duffel bag and a tripod. The bag looks heavy, and it lets out a clank when he places it on the floor. Repulsion pools at the pit of my stomach at the sight of him. "The entire crew and band are kind of pissed off at you and Gabe," he then says, now kneeling by the bag, unzipping it, pulling out wires and cables. There's a furious urgency to his movements.

"What the hell do you want?"

He looks up, that stupid fucking floppy fringe over his eyes. "What does it look like? I'm interviewing you. And no! No, you don't tell me that we're doing this later! I've been trying to get you to sit your ass down for weeks, and I'll be damned if I don't get this done. I'm so fucking tired of people just thinking that I don't mind, no, no, Shane won't fucking mind, Shane has infinite fucking patience." He places the tripod in the middle of the room. "Now sit down!" he barks and points at the couch.

I'm so surprised that I actually obey.

If he's here, at least he's not with Brendon.

If he's yelling at me, he's clearly not...

I study him more closely as he sets up the video camera.

Taking off seemed like the logical thing to do back in Vegas – I have no collar on me, I'm a freeman. They all think Spencer and I just took off partying, grabbing Gabe along for the ride. But Brendon knows what happened. Now Vicky knows too. And I've been thinking that Brendon spent last night making up to Shane in such vivid detail, winning Shane back over one kiss at a time, but... Shane's a fucking mess.

I almost laugh.

He's a fucking mess too.

Well done, Bren. Is this what you wanted?

Shane's been looking more and more exhausted ever since we got on tour, but now he's starting to resemble a dead man. The dark circles around his eyes make him look older, and his eyes lack that mindless gleam of the earlier days. His hair is dirty and messy, he looks like he's been wearing the same clothes for two or three days now, and he's got a fair layer of stubble – the overall scruffy tour look, just magnified. But he's not smiling. That's the biggest difference. Because even when he was tired, he'd smile, joke, kid around.

Now he looks furious, sad and devastated.

He leans over the camera, peering into the viewfinder and adjusting what he sees. He grabs a lamp and fiddles with the lights, drawing the curtains, going back to the camera, swearing, sweating, mumbling.

"Right," he says finally, pressing buttons on the camera until a red light comes on. I flinch, blink, taken aback. He grabs a chair and sits behind the camera, presumably now pleased with the lights and the focus and whatever else. "Okay, Ryan Ross," he says, digging into the duffel bag and pulling out paper. It looks like scribbled questions. He has pages and pages of them. "So talk to me about this new band. How's that?" He sounds angry.

"Do we have to do this now?" I ask quietly. "I've had a rough night."

I sound like it, my voice raw. I probably look it: alcohol, coke, self-pity and misery, and now anger, brooding, bitter anger.

"Yes, we do. We really, really do," he laughs desperately.

The red light remains aimed at me, but I look beyond it, at him. He isn't here to listen to me open up about the band. He doesn't care about his documentary right now.

"Switch that thing off," I tell him. He looks at me with sad, almost fearful eyes.

"What?"

"Switch it off."

He hesitates, but then reaches over, and the red light dies.

"Spit it out, then."

He's confided in me before, so it only makes sense in his head. I don't care. I won't sympathise. He looks pale and sick as he slumps in his chair. "I think he's cheated on me," he says quietly.

God.

Really?

You're only six months late.

"Oh." A hint of shock and sympathy in my tone. Fucking perfect. I'll tell him right now: I fucked him. I did it. Me, me, me, me. "He has cheated on you."

"Well, I have no proof," he says before I get to the punch line. That's disappointing. He doesn't even bother to disguise that this is what he wants to talk about, not me. "But his stories don't add up. And little things all of a sudden, like sometimes he's smelled like... someone else. Or times when he disappeared for a night or a day or an afternoon, but I just thought that his explanations made sense, but they don't. They didn't. And I don't know how many men he's been... But then what if it's all in my head, but I just – God, I'm going insane!" he laughs like a man who, well. Is going insane.

Which is actually more entertaining.

"You need one," I say, pointing at the coffee table where the bottles stand in such a pretty, pretty row. He exhales shakily and grabs the bottle nearest to him, uncorks it and drinks it down.

"You think you know someone," he says, instantly going for a second bottle. He uncorks it and drinks it down in two sips. He wipes his mouth, cringing. "You think you really know someone, you know? But then it's all just lies, and you realise that you don't even fucking know who you're sharing your bed with. And he's sorry, I know, he's so sorry, but if it makes him feel that bad, why did he lie in the first place? Fuck. I don't even know his real name. I don't know if – if Brendon Urie is his real name, because he could've gotten that changed, couldn't he? I don't know where he's from. Don't know where he went to high school. All those things, and the times when he'd shower the second he got home, they all make sense now. That's pretty bad, right? When you don't even know who your boyfriend is having sex with, when you don't even know his fucking name."

He's vomiting it all out, it seems. He's working his way through the mini bottles efficiently.

"He's not giving me the truth. I fucking know it." He scoffs bitterly. "He thinks we can just go back to the way we were? He's wrong. He's fucking wrong. He either spits it all out, or we're done. I'm not putting up with that anymore." He silences and finishes a mini gin.

"You shouldn't put up with it."

"I know!" he exclaims.

"He's just stringing you along."

"God, I know." He tries to throw one of the mini bottles into the rubbish can, but he misses. He sighs heavily and rubs his face tiredly. "It's shit when something you were so sure of just... disappears."

I know exactly what he means.

It's not Shane that I want to punish. He and I are relatively innocent in all of this. It's Brendon. His doing. And –

"You want some grass?" I offer, and the second I say it, I –

I should send him away.

And I could pretend that that tiny thought did not enter my head, but it did.

"Yeah," he says. Oblivious. Or is he? Why does he keep coming back to me to tell me how messed up his relationship is? I'm not doing anything he doesn't fucking want.

"'kay," I say, heading to the bedroom where my suitcase is. He follows me, and I dig out a lighter that I toss to him. He sits on the edge of my bed, fiddling with it, and I find ready rolled joints in a cigarette pack. I get one out.

This is the biggest joke of all. This will be funny, something to write home about. This is where I give them all the finger, where I get the last laugh. It almost makes me smile.

Shane flicks the lighter, and I hold the joint between my lips, sitting on the bed next to him. I inhale deep, my eyes closing. I don't think of Brendon or what'd this do to him or us because no, no, he murdered us.

So let me murder him in turn.

Let me kill something that is holy to him.

Maybe then we'll be even. Maybe then it'll stop hurting.

Shane takes a hit. "Fuck, this is strong," he says, breathing out smoke, the air smelling of bitter grass. He inhales again, cheeks hollowing.

I take the joint from him. My hand is shaking. This is good. This is a brilliant idea. I'll do this one my way.

When I pass the joint back to him, the high is already kicking in. It is strong shit, the best, top notch. He fidgets, exhales. He pulls on his collar.

"So," I say.

"What?"

He looks at me, blown pupils full of curious innocence that has to be a front.

"So," I repeat.

He gazes at me almost dreamily, and then his eyes drop to my lips.

So much for their eternal love.

I lean over and kiss him. Something inside me dies at the first contact. Good. He fumbles, his breathing hitches. First Gabe, now him. He exhales shakily and he squeezes my knee. Fumbling, fumbling.

"Christ," he whispers, sounding awed. Breathy. Willing.

Of course he's willing.

It's disgusting.

I don't care.

I kiss him again, hard and rough, I push my tongue into his fucking mouth and taste his fucking taste, and something about it reminds me of Brendon, like I've tasted it on Brendon before, and it sickens me. And he kisses somehow similar to Brendon, like their years together have turned them the same. But he doesn't kiss like Brendon, it's not Brendon, and every touch reminds me of it.

And if he had any decency, he'd stop to say 'I don't think I can' or 'This feels so wrong'. But he doesn't. He's into it, so into it, falling onto the bed and me moving on top. The springs of the mattress squeak as we move. He squirms and pants and his hand moves down to feel my ass.

I snatch his wrist and pin his arm above his head. He groans. He likes that. Getting controlled.

"Pants off," I order.

He blinks. He obeys.

I move off of him, to sit on my knees. He reaches for his fly. Eagerly. Eagerly. Fucking piece of shit, fucking whore, and I unbuckle my belt, unzip myself, shove my pants down and get my cock out because this is something to be quick about.

I'm semi-hard.

Thank god for the pathetic, animalistic reaction of body heat against me.

I stroke myself to encourage the erection, to get myself a bit harder, fast and brutal. He pulls his jeans and underwear down, exposing himself. I don't want him mostly dressed, however, I want him naked and bare like a slut.

"Take everything off."

I don't want this to be like in LA, when the rustle of clothes mixed with sounds Brendon made, those helpless, gorgeous sounds when he kissed me. No, god, I can't. I can't.

He pulls off his t-shirt, and then removes his jeans and socks. It's ungraceful and hurried, and when he sees me stroking myself, his eyes darken. Slut, slut, slut, slut, slut.

"C'mere," I say once he's naked, and he moves to sit on his knees. I grab the back of his neck and pull him closer. His cheeks are a deep red. His cock is fully erect, he's harder than me, he's hard, and fuck, he disgusts me. "Put that fucking mouth of yours to good use," I tell him, pushing his head down. And he exhales, turned on, and licks his lips. I lean back, sitting on my knees as he sinks down and takes my cock into his mouth, his greedy hands on my hips. No hesitation, no second guessing.

He's got a way with his tongue and his mouth, and he's so fucking eager. He gives good head. I stare down at him, watching my cock between his lips. And I feel it, and it feels good, but it's also detached. This is not me. I am not doing this.

He runs his tongue over my slit, and I jerk and hiss.

I am doing this.

I press my hands into his hair, force him to take down more. He almost gags but manages not to. I wish he had. I wish he'd choke. I pull on his hair – Brendon likes that when he sucks me off – and Shane likes it, too, and I keep him there like a slave until my balls ache. I pull him off roughly, an obscene pop sounds in the room. His chin is wet from saliva, and he wipes at his mouth and takes in deep breaths. He looks fucked, not fucked fucked, but he's pretty off his face from the liquor and the grass, but boy, oh boy, is he hard. He's leaking.

"Hands and knees."

"Yeah." His voice is rough. He's eyeing my erection hungrily. His cock is as long as mine, which is somehow disappointing because most dicks aren't as big, but he's not as thick. Brendon loves it thick, when it really pushes him open.

He gets on his hands and knees. He's got a plain ass, not full and perfect like Brendon's, just an ass, and I see his hole, and it sickens me.

I spit onto my palm, hastily rubbing it onto his hole once he's positioned himself. When he's like this, it's hard to tell who he is. He could be some guy. Just some guy.

"Don't you have lube?" he asks, has the sense to ask.

"I do." But saliva is all he'll get.

I move into position and press the head of my cock against him. I'm not going to prolong this, I'm not going to make sure he's ready. Anyone can take a cock in the right mind set. And he. "You've wanted me to fuck you since day one," I tell him, and he lets out a moan but that's not enough. "Haven't you? Tell me."

"Yes," he groans, and yes, yes, there it is, a fucking confession, is someone filming this?

I push into him. A burning pain radiates from my chest, and my guts twist but not because it feels good – it does, though, he is tight around me, but the way in which it doesn't feel good at all is more obvious. Like my heart shatters all over again.

He swears, his back arching. He fists the sheets and groans. I pull out all the way, spit on my hand, rub some more saliva on, and then push in again, and then I fuck him, and he takes it, he groans, he says, "Fuck, fuck, Ryan, fuck", because he knows who it is and it's getting him off, and he's been thinking about this, whore, whore, whore, has probably been jerking off to this ever since I told him I fuck men. That's it, I know I'm right. I bet he got so fucking excited that day, didn't he? All his stupid. Fucking. Dreams. Of. Getting. Fucked. By. Me. Fucking. Coming. True.

I go in hard because I have no reason not to. Our bodies slam together, and I try to come already, try to get there. Which will be more insulting, coming in him or pulling out to come over him? Making him come but not coming at all, saying he can't get me off?

But he can.

I called Brendon a slut. It takes one to know one.

Shane's jerking himself off, and I wish he wasn't vocal like he is, I wish he was quiet so I didn't have to hear or know. I breathe hard, try to keep my noises to myself. Brendon's made me vocal, he's all about the dirty groans and sultry moans, and once he got me being more vocal, it was hard to stop, even more so when he learned all of my weak spots, how he used those to undo me.

I don't know what gets Shane off, and he doesn't know what gets me off, so we don't try to. He focuses on getting fucked, stroking his leaking cock, and I focus on fucking him and getting off. The bed moves, and he's loud, and I breathe hard, feel sweat on my neck, rolling down, and if this isn't over soon I'll scream.

But he comes, then. His groan is deep and masculine, coming deep from his chest, an "Oh yeah, oh fuck, Ryan, fuck me," and I do. His muscles squeeze around me, and it's enough. I feel the surge of it, and I bite on my lip not to moan as I pull out, cock in hand, and come on his ass, press the head of my cock to his widened hole and milk it out.

None of it feels good.

Once it's done, and I'm breathing hard, and I've fucked him, there, I've fucked him too, and good luck in your fucking relationship when I've had you both, and once it's done –

I stagger out of bed, barely recovered from the orgasm, my fingers covered in my come. I stagger across the room and into the bathroom, kicking my pants off as I go. I stagger into the shower and turn it on. A water spray hits me, and only then do I breathe.

I wipe my eyes, and I pull at my clothes, and I grab this tiny hotel soap in this fucking wrapper, and I use my teeth to get it out, spit out paper, and then I scrub the soap on me, and I scrub it on my softening dick, and I scrub it against my pubes, and my stomach, and my chest, as my removed clothes are a pile on the bath floor, and I scrub the soap against my tongue and I gag and I spit and I hold back screams and sober up so fucking quickly that it makes my head spin.

I twist the tap until the water stops. I lean against the tiles and breathe.

This is all a big joke. I did a good job.

I grab a hotel towel, press it against my face and try to calm down.

So I fucked Shane.

That's not that bad.

That's not...

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

My clothes are soaked, so I wrap the towel firmly around my waist as I head back out. Shane's sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear, just pulling his t-shirt back on. Good. Or. Well. Taking off the second I've come probably was a hint that there'd be no cuddling afterwards.

"How was that, then?" I ask, and he flinches.

"I..." He looks around, confused. It was a pretty lousy fuck. I know. I didn't want it to be good. "Oh god," he breathes out. It's almost panicked as he looks at me, my hair wet, clad in nothing but a towel. "Fuck, what did I do?" He stands up and grabs his jeans, and when I catch a glimpse of his ass, the fabric of his boxers is wet there, a splotch of wet fabric, my come soaked into it.

"Hey, it happens," I tell him, downplay it. It happens.

"I just cheated on Brendon," he laughs hysterically, like this didn't even occur to him while I was in him. "With you."

"Like I said, it happens."

"I need to..." he says, motioning at the door. He's panicking. Fuck, he's fucking panicking. He heads straight to the other room and frantically starts packing up his equipment. I follow, an anger spreading in me.

"You can never tell Brendon about what just happened," I say slowly. "Do you hear me? You can never tell Brendon."

If Brendon finds out about this, that's it. He'll never forgive me.

But it's not about Brendon, it's about me, and Shane does not get to ruin this for me.

Shane zips up his bag and grabs the tripod, trying to get out as quick as possible.

"Shane, are you fucking listening?" I bark, following him to the door. A burning ache spreads in my chest, my brilliant idea turning against me so quickly. What did I do? Shit, what did I do?

He opens the door, but I slam it shut. He's tense, staring ahead of himself, and the guilt is rolling off of him in waves.

"Listen to me," I say quietly. "You never tell him about this. It didn't mean anything. You were high, you were upset. You slipped once, and Brendon's fucked around plenty, so that's okay, right? You never tell anyone, and neither will I. Is that understood?"

He nods after far too long. "Yes."

I step back and let him get out.

My insides feel hot, and I press my hand to my mouth, trying not to think of it but my mind is only full of memories of fucking him and his sounds and what it felt like.

When I'm sick in the bathroom shortly after, it's got nothing to do with the drugs like it was by the highway.

I didn't make a mistake.

I planned it.

It was all a part of my grand plan. And Shane better keep his mouth shut because this is mine to tell.

I'll tell Brendon. I'll tell him.

And then he'll be sorry he ever crossed me.

Brendon is hard to find before the show. Jon's not talking to me, so I guess Cassie is finally pleased. Jon will forgive me for acting out again, though, once I tell him why I took off. He gets love, so he'll understand my dark and ugly love. Maybe. Patrick can't afford to give me an attitude, so he just smiles nervously.

Brendon is here at the venue, though, one of the roadies told me so.

And I need to have a word with him. I have some interesting news to tell.

So I find him, and I'm so pleased, so, so pleased. He's in the canteen, in the corner table by himself, staring at a plate with some cold looking mashed potatoes on it. Others have left, and he's alone. Like he deserves to be. And the last time our eyes met, he left me. A lifetime ago.

See, that was someone else. Some fool who felt his heart swell at the sight of him. Some naïve fool.

Not me.

"Rough day?" I ask, sitting down beside him. He startles, and like yesterday, he has these reddened eyes like he's been crying – again. What's that all about? He's crying so much all of a sudden. He never used to. He was so tough and independent, unreachable. And now he's soft. He's gone soft.

"Yeah," he says, surprising me by not taking off. I thought I'd have to yell it to his back. And his misery affects me none whatsoever, doesn't make it harder to breathe, doesn't fill me with concern or regret because I hate seeing him sad. Because it kills me. No, it doesn't affect me at all. "Is it true that you, Spencer and Gabe drove down here?"

"Yeah, man. Impromptu road trip. Felt like I needed it after you left me."

He flinches. He doesn't get to act sorry about it now. He left me, and I've since taken control of my life once more.

Fuck everything we ever had.

"You've been drinking," he says, sounding disappointed.

"I know." Needed to wash away the taste of Shane. Soap didn't cut it. "You seen Shane lately?"

Because I have.

"He's avoiding me."

Because I fucked him.

"God, because the... the funniest thing happened. You'll love this." I laugh already, and he looks alarmed. Something about this doesn't feel good, but it will soon. It will. "See, I've kind of been in a bad place since, well, yesterday, and we bought this coke and I just have not been making the best decisions as of late, so –"

"Baby, you need to stop doing this shit to yourself," he whispers, eyes so sad, and I forget what I meant to say. My thoughts scatter all over, and a familiar tug feels in my chest. Something warm and powerful. No. No, not that. "Ryan," he says softly. He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together, and I stare at our hands in confusion. "You have to take better care of yourself."

But why would I care for myself when he doesn't?

"You don't get to worry," I say quietly. One touch, and everything I'm so sure of seems to vanish. One touch, and the scab gets pulled off prematurely, and it's fresh blood all over again. "You chose Shane, so you don't –"

"I worry. I don't... know what I'm doing." He laughs like that'd be the day. "I don't know if Shane and I..." Yeah. Yeah, Shane's not forgiving him, is he? And Brendon's realising that now. "And then there's you, and it's all up in the air. And Shane might. He might leave me, but you won't, right? You won't."

I won't...? But he. He left me. He said it was over, and now he's –

He doesn't know what he's doing.

He just said it, but he – he really doesn't know what he's doing. At all. Last night it was Shane, today it's me, and tomorrow it'll be Shane again. All this time I've been looking for an answer, a simple, unifying truth that would explain his actions, why he pulls me in, clings onto me, pushes me back, leaves me, then comes back again.

Something that would explain it.

But there is no answer. There is no end reason.

It's not me. It's him.

He has no idea what the hell he's doing. And that's even more insulting to what we had, to what we felt.

What good will it do to break his heart?

Will it bring him back to me? Will it fix my own?

Will causing him pain make me feel any better?

He's still clutching my hand, turned towards me, earnest eyes on me. I can't look him in the eye. An overwhelming sense of loss hits me. It doesn't matter what he'd choose in the end now, even if by some miracle it'd be me eventually. I made sure we were over. That he'd never forgive me. It'll just... be easier like this.

Maybe he won't understand it now, but one day he'll see that I was right.

"Can I ask you one thing?" I whisper, and he nods instantly. "Did I... imagine it? Us?" I push away the memories that are too pure to think of right now. "What we felt? Was that just me?"

"Of course it wasn't." He's frowning, looking hurt. "Walking away from you last night was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. God, you haven't imagined us. Back when things were easier, I'd just find myself smiling thinking about you all the time. Butterflies in my stomach," he says a bit sheepishly. "My heart skips beats. A rush of blood. All those things."

That's good. That's comforting to know at last.

A little too late, not changing anything, but it makes me feel less insane.

"I did something bad," I say slowly, to bring down the sword that's hanging above our heads. "I did... something wrong." I pull my hand from his warm clasp. The skin of my palm feels cold now, without his touch. "I thought it'd make me feel better. It didn't. I thought that... hurting you would make me feel better. But it won't."

He's staring at me, suddenly pale. "What did you do?"

I look up and, as if by fate, a man walks into the canteen but stops and hovers at the sight of us, of seeing his boyfriend sitting with the man he just got fucked by. Literally and figuratively.

Brendon follows my gaze. Shane looks like the guiltiest man alive. It's written all over his face, and Brendon looks at me again.

"Ryan." Voice rougher, more demanding. "What did you do?"

"Only what was expected of me," I reply and stand up because his tone is urgent, and he knows already. He knows.

When I get closer, Shane says, "Vicky said you're needed on stage." He sounds like his tongue is swollen and his throat is closed off, and he stares at Brendon with such an obvious, scared expression that I know it's a matter of seconds before it's all publicly known.

Shane doesn't move as I pass him, like he's made of stone. He stares at his boyfriend, his boyfriend stares at him. And maybe I should congratulate myself on leaving the two of them to stand in the ruins of their love, but I don't.

Walking away from him is the hardest thing I've ever done in my life.

Vicky's by the stage, chewing gum ferociously, and the band is there, too, ready to go on. "Hey, you alright?" she asks, giving me the onceover, and I don't know if she's still pissed off about earlier, the coke and Gabe and me being such a prick. She sees something written all over my face, however, because her eyes widen in surprise when she takes me in. "Ryan?" she asks. Gabe's busy not looking my way, and fuck. Fuck, I fucked it all up again.

Lesson learned: never trust anyone. My old man taught me that at a fucking young age, but I forgot. I just forgot.

Brendon made me forget who I am.

"I want Brendon and Shane out of here."

The words burn my throat.

She blinks at me and then nods. "Okay."

"I want them out of here now."

"They'll be gone by the time you come off stage," she says, snapping her fingers at a guy who hurries over to wait for a command. "They're off this tour," she tells me, and then she quickly mutters something to the guy, something about escorting off the premises, and the guy looks surprised – one of the roadies, whatever his name is – but Vicky stares him down until he realises she's not kidding.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, looking confused and uncomfortable.

"Take their tour passes," she says after him, and then she turns to me for validation, if that's good enough for now. It is for now.

"I don't want to see them again," I say, tone almost pleading.

"You'll never have to. I'll put them on a plane back home."

"Vicky, listen. I can't see him again. I can't."

Not after what I've done. What we've both done.

Her hand lands on my arm, and it calms me, steadies me, pushes back the inevitable panic and horror and shock and loss.

"Don't worry. Brendon's out of your life. He's gone."

And it's not what I ever wanted, but it's something that I made happen. Something that, in the end, I needed. Because Brendon wasn't entirely wrong about one thing: he and I have a knack for destroying each other.

"You need to go on stage," Vicky says, and I nod, shaking, trembling like a leaf. Okay. I head over towards the blinding, purifying lights, but then stop when it weights me down, tightens around my throat, threatens to cut off my air. My band's already there, having just walked on to roaring applause.

"Vicky, I need to get this off," I say, pulling on the chain around my neck, and she hurries over and says, "Okay, okay, let me," and I shiver as her nimble fingers reach the clasp, and then the simple silver chain is gone. Its familiar weight is no longer there.

I rub my throat and cough and try to breathe. Breathe. He's gone. Breathe.

She pockets the chain and smoothes my shirt, trying to smile supportively. "There, that any better?"

No.

"He's gone, right?"

She smiles sympathetically. "Yeah. He's gone."

He's gone.

And so I walk on stage because there is no other place for me to go.

And the cheering doubles, triples as the thousands of fans see me, and I've never been so lost in my life. He's gone. I've sent him away, but not before we destroyed each other. Like those smarter than us knew that we would.

The stage lights illuminate me and give me a halo.

And I take my place behind the microphone, where I will stand, where I am doomed to stand and privileged to stand, by myself, always by myself.

Where I am never wrong, where I have never erred, my eyes flying over the rows of lifted arms, euphoric cries, devoted gazes.

Where I am finally loved.

End of Volume 2


End file.
